Red and Black
by Robin Mask
Summary: Will had never seen this side to Grell before . . . so vulnerable, so broken . . . he wanted to help him, but all Grell seemed to want was to break Will's cold exterior. Will would have to act fast to save not only Grell, but their relationship too . . . Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story relies on a mixture of various _Black Butler _mediums. The opening scene is taken from episode twenty-three of the anime, whereas later Grell makes mention of events from the musicals . . . on a different note, has anyone read the 'Sebastian Snape' arc and been able to take it at all seriously? XD

**Red or Black**

The sky was burned impure that night with the soul of London.

The smoke of the burning flames spread upwards like the last gasp of breath from a dying body, the red blaze spread evenly and rapidly from the veins of the alleys, and the fire soon bled across the landscape as it stained all that it touched. Everything was quickly reduced to ashes as if it had never even existed. The city was dying. Its screams could be heard piercing the night air, stealing what little peace could be obtained from the city-dwellers not caught in the inferno of flames. The city was dying and Grell had the fortune to witness it.

There was nothing more beautiful than the rich and vibrant crimson colour of the fire flickering and scattering with a thousand shades, each hue competing with the last for dominance of the eye, each hue somehow existing in harmony with others of such startling contrasts. He could have watched the fire rage all night, revelling in its power and adaptive nature, but it was the skyline that truly captured his interest, because without that skyline there would be no black to complement his red. How could the sky be so black as the raven's wing when the city underneath was lit up like the day? It was a mystery to him how light and dark could co-exist like that, not least when the light always sought to consume the darkness with its touch, but somehow they did, and the night sky looked down at the scene with total indifference and carelessness. It was beautiful, a startling juxtaposition of two opposite shades.

Oh, how beautiful that wild and untameable fire was! It was so uncontrollable, so natural, and so perfect! It filled the air with crackling and breaking sounds that reminded Grell so much of the applause of an audience, something that was at once natural and unnatural in one go, something that could only exist within the setting of a stage and yet felt so real! The fire was real, of course it was, but it was so out of the norm that it felt so surreal all at once! He couldn't ignore the snapping of timbers or the smashing of windows even if he tried!

The scent of burning filled the air like the delicious aroma of perfume. It was a bittersweet sensation, something that stung the eyes and made them water dramatically, but something that also felt nostalgic and reminiscent of the past. It made Grell yearn for the heroines of romance novels, those that would sit by the roaring fireplace and dream of great loves, but – at the same time – those heroines didn't have to taste the stench of burning and rotting flesh, that harsh and violent scent that pervaded the senses and stole the last traces of sanity. It seemed to linger even when it had long gone, almost as if the very scent was as haunting as the presence of the fire itself or the memory of those lives it had consumed. It was a feeling that Grell could have done without, because once the fire had gone he knew all that would be left would be black . . . black, the absence of life and the symbol of mourning, not the passion and life that the red flames could give.

"My, you'd think these thoughtless people would let a lady enjoy a show!" Grell muttered, half to himself as he walked through the heart of the city. "All that screaming and crying ruins the atmosphere!"

It was hard to ignore the way that the ground underfoot appeared to crackle with each step, the way that the soot flooded the air and clung to his clothing and hair, and he was sure – positive, even! – that the horrid smell of bodies and decay would linger for days to come, no matter how hard he tried to wash it out. It was just like Will to give a lady such a difficult job! Didn't he have any sense of chivalry?

These back alleys seemed to go on forever and ever, all leading to the same place like arteries leading to the pulsing heart, and no matter where he turned he seemed to end up at square one. He had run into body after body after body, albeit some were still running and moving, but they were merely walking sacks of skin that would soon expire in the flames and leave him with interesting little records to delve into, maybe with the prospect of finding one with a life worth living. It was just so difficult to believe that a human could be worth saving, but sometimes they were, sometimes they were worth the trouble of letting live . . .

"Ah! Like you!"

Grell looked down to see a young woman dead upon the floor, seemingly having tried to run but unfortunately unable to, and – within her arms – was a small and beautiful bundle of life truly worth saving! It was so pure and innocent . . . it was hard to come across anything so untouched in the world of the living, and even the Shinigami had problems when it came to those things truly perfect and of aesthetic meaning, but this babe was the most perfect thing he had ever seen!

"How unfortunate . . . it seems even the dead are blessed with young, whilst I'm forever doomed to live without knowing the love of someone so unconditionally! Do you think I would make a bad mother? Will would hate me for saying this, but I do wonder if I'm not being punished the way Madame Red was . . . do you have a name, Little One? You're so adorable!"

The little one was wrapped in a white swaddling cloth, the white not doing anything in the shadowy night with the red flames licking all about, and – if the child had been Grell's – he would have swaddled him in something much more adorable and handsome! It made the boy seem pale and sickly, so that his dirty face merely merged in with the blue clothes and dirty cloths, it was both cliché and sickeningly common, and surely little boys as handsome as that deserved something more unique and special than 'ordinary'?

Grell knelt down and reached out to the boy to stroke his cheek. It was hard to feel the soft skin beneath a glove-clad finger, but he could feel the plumpness to his cheek and the fat upon his face, and something inside him broke at the sensation. That maternal urge in him seemed to swim to the surface, threatening to break out, and he couldn't help but let out a long sigh of desire, smiling so that all of his sharp teeth came out to view, his green eyes filled with love and adoration. He couldn't help but knit his eyebrows though into despair, knowing that the boy would die . . . it just wasn't right for a child to die, it was like blasphemy of the highest kind. Life was merely a scattering of pain and pleasure, of joy and agony, of black and red, and today it seemed would be no different . . . he hated knowing he could do nought but walk away, but at the same time he so craved to hold the boy and ease his tears!

"Does it hurt? Is it painful?"

A sense of regret washed through him like the cold waves of the ocean over a naked body, something at once beautiful in its pain and misery and yet so painful and sharp it was hardly endurable. He was drowning in pain. His throat felt tight and constricted, his breath absent entirely, and his mind so light-headed that he wondered if he would be able to fulfil his tasks without slacking in the slightest. He didn't usually get called out to children, but this one wasn't on his list and the other Shinigami were on enforced overtime . . . maybe this was one of Ronald's.

He stood up slowly and stoically, trying to maintain some sense of professionalism . . . it wasn't so much a need to do his job properly, but more of a desperate desire to keep himself from breaking whilst on the job. He knew that something was afoot concerning Sebastian and Ciel, he also knew that Will would have his hide if he was lax on the job, but he couldn't help but think of that child all alone . . .

"So busy . . ."

It was like his mantra. If he was busy then he couldn't help his actions, he could walk on and pretend like this child wasn't his responsibility or anything to do with him, he could leave that alleyway – as he had – and never look back. A man couldn't help what job he had or the fact that he had to work . . . he couldn't help that he had to leave a baby behind to die alone in an alleyway, but even if he wanted to save it he couldn't, the amount of smoke in that baby's lungs would surely kill it regardless. What was the point in trying when he knew it would only end in heartbreak? He was so busy anyway . . . surely it wouldn't be his fault . . .

"It feels wrong . . ."

He carried on walking forward, feeling that painfully familiar tug upon his heart that urged him backwards towards that howling babe, those cries lost amongst the screams and pleas of the dead. It was sinful to leave a child alone. It only wanted love and comfort, it was so defenceless and in need of protection. It was so dependent on those men and women now scorched by the red flames and drowned in the black night, and soon it would join them for all eternity in the waiting abyss.

Grell only took twenty paces before he was compelled to turn around.

*-*-* line break *-*-*

* * *

Red . . .

It was everywhere. It was an obscene offence to his eyes. It was like an assault to his senses, an affront to nature, and no matter where he turned its bright and passionate hue could not be avoided. It raped his eyes, it tore away his sanity, and he slowly felt his soul torn away to a state of perdition. How one man could stand such a block of colour, broken by no other shades, was beyond his understanding . . . his only working theory so far had been that perhaps Grell was born colour blind.

The only reprieve came from the cream walls that – thankfully – Grell had allowed to grace his home, albeit the chimney breast had been painted a bright and sickly shade of scarlet so as not to leave his otherwise pure walls feeling left out. The oak floorboards underfoot creaked with each movement, but once the burgundy rug had been reached it muffled the sounds entirely. It wasn't an entirely hideous room, but the very nature of it could not help but offend William who was used to the uniform codes of the office. The red sofas, the red shelves, the red drapes . . . and – most infuriating of all – was the man in red who sat before him, lounging as if he were not several hours late for work.

Grell lay draped across the sofa in the most relaxed state that William could remember, but the double-doors into the drawing room were situated – rather strangely and against all custom – behind the sofa, leaving the redheaded Shinigami oblivious to William's entrance. The sofa and its occupant instead faced a roaring fireplace, with orange and red flames licking upwards and the sound of crackling wood echoed about the room with a harsh intensity.

It was an almost relaxing scene . . . if it had been any other time then William could have perhaps lost himself in the flickering flames, the smell of burning wood, but as it was the rather homely scene only served to sicken him. It was an insult that whilst he slaved away working overtime, trying to find replacements for lost employees, and forced to contribute to an overflowing pile of paperwork, that Grell could lie at home with nothing to do but to appreciate the overbearing silence. It trivialised their occupation. It trivialised all their efforts. It made him want to kill the redheaded Shinigami before him . . .

William walked around the circular mat to the foot of the sofa, allowing him full sight of Grell who – lost so deeply in his thoughts – still hadn't looked up to see his manager and boss standing before him. The redhead seemed intently focussed on painting his long nails as red as his hair, which lay draped long and loose over his shoulders framing his face and accentuating his body.

It felt indecent to watch him in such a relaxed and informal state. The handsome man took his time to carefully slide the wet brush over his nails, turning them occasionally to check the paint was even and neat, whilst occasionally humming a tune that William could not recognise. He wore such a sad smile across those painted red lips, one that pulled at something deep inside William and almost broke his cold exterior. There – beside him – on a side-table lay a tall bottle of red nail-polish, a bottle of red wine, and a long blade that was red with blood . . . what made the situation all the more surreal – and somewhat personal – was what Grell was wearing, or – more to the point – what he _wasn't _wearing.

William adjusted his glasses nervously as he felt a blush threaten to creep its way onto his face. He had half an urge to turn back and this time knock upon the door to the drawing room, but he had seen his peer in far worse states of undress before, and he certainly would not let this deter him from the task at hand . . . even if it was far more red than he was ever used to . . .

"Grell Sutcliff, are you aware that you are late for work?"

The redheaded Shinigami yelped loudly and very nearly dropped the brush in his hand. A long red trail of paint inadvertently ran down his index finger as he jumped, causing him to curse and make a hasty grab for a tissue beside him to fix his mistake, and as he – eventually – glanced upwards to Will his sorrowful smile finally broke into a sincere and grateful one. His long row of shark-like teeth came into full display, and his cheeks lit up with a blush of his own as his green eyes glowed in the darkened room, lit only by the light of the fire.

"Ah, Will! I'm so glad to see you, but . . ."

"You are late for work by five hours, Sutcliff."

Will looked down at Grell's state of dress and blushed without meaning. The redhead looked unusually . . . _attractive_. He seemed to be wearing a sheer, red negligee with rather feminine night-shorts underneath, complete with black frills and lace, whilst his legs were adorned with black netted stockings, and his feet complete with black and red heeled shoes that only served to make his legs look far longer than they ought. William felt amazed at how a negligee could serve to make a man look more naked than if he were wearing nothing at all, and how the urge to reach out and touch it could be so strong considering that Grell disgusted him at any other time. It could not be right to find oneself lusting for a man that one despised on principle.

"Why aren't you dressed?" he asked bitterly.

"Ah! You have no right to ask such things of a lady! Don't you know that a gentleman should knock before entering a lady's room? You're supposed to knock and wait and then be allowed entrance! Oh, you're such a boorish man! You're nothing like my darling Sebby!"

"Firstly, I see no lady in this room, Sutcliff," William snapped a little more harshly than he intended. "Secondly, is this the same darling Sebastian Michaelis that has appeared to have given you a black eye?"

"Oh no! It's bruised? Oh, why must they always damage my face! It takes so long to make-up at the best of times . . . do you think foundation will cover it?"

"There is no amount of foundation that can cover a face so ugly."

"Oh, you're so cruel! You'll drive me to insanity, like poor Ophelia!"

Grell let out a loud cry of what sounded like pain and threw himself over onto his stomach, whilst carefully making sure he kept his hands overhead so as to avoid smudging the rest of his nails. The movement and his position on the sofa caused him to lie with his head and arms over the arm of the sofa, with his buttocks poised slightly upwards and his back arched. William found his eyes drawn downwards against his will, but it was then that he noticed a shade of red that was obscenely out of place, a red unlike the other hues that lay about the room . . .

All over Grell's pale, white arms were the darkest and deepest of red cuts. It had been difficult to see at first. The dark room and the position of the cuts on the inner arm, running along the vein until they met the wrist, and the fact that Grell had been painting his nails so that the inner arms were previously facing inwards . . . it had all combined so that the wounds had been hidden from sight. A few of the cuts appeared old so that they were crusted over and dark in colour, a red that bordered on black, whilst the rest appeared to be freshly made . . . the blood was still smeared across his skin, like paint splashed aimlessly upon a canvas, and each one marred his flesh in a little successive line, so that it was as if he had monotonously and meticulously cut himself to make the lined pattern that tainted his arms.

It was then that Grell threw himself upright into a sitting position. His legs were now trapped under his buttocks, his head thrown back so that his waist-length hair cascaded down his back like a river of blood, and suddenly his face and arms were blocked out of sight by that red curtain. William wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not that the body of his colleague was now out of show, but judging from the sudden cries and whines of Grell he soon realised that it was perhaps a _bad _thing that the man had chosen to sit how he had.

"Why, it's so unfair!" Grell turned his head to glance over his shoulder, biting the tip of his left thumb as he did so. It was a rather helpless look that made Will blush yet again. "All I try to do is to live life as beautifully as possible, drifting through the air like a soft melody, and you men always try to spoil things by silencing the music of life! You don't understand what it's like at all! Why close the curtains before the final act? Why stop the dance before the sonata ends?"

"Grell –"

"Red is so beautiful, isn't it? Why do people hate me for making the drab and dreary world so much more colourful and meaningful? Why am I being punished simply for living life to its fullest? Love is such a beautiful flower . . . it's not fair that every time a lady like me reaches for it that all I do is get cut by the thorns of hatred instead! Love and hate! Two intertwined as one! Is that what love is, Will? The thorns and the rose, the ink stains on the paper, and the mournful black with the soulful red! Ah! Love and pain are one, and so I must suffer for love!"

William sighed and adjusted his glasses yet again.

He knew how uncontrollable Grell could be. He was very much like a bird that sought nothing but to fly, one with the most beautiful songs to sing and most impressive plumage, but the moment it was placed inside a cage . . . it often seemed that work to Grell was very much a 'cage'. He would either run away the first chance he had, forcing William to drag him back by force, or he would either become depressed and despondent or cause an awful amount of trouble.

It was sometimes easier to humour Grell and let him let loose his rants, throw his tantrums, and allow him the freedom of expression than it was to argue with him or to try and reason with him. There was no way that Grell would make it in time for his shift now, and William was in no mood to return to work when his own shift was very nearly over, it would perhaps be best to assess the situation rationally and then to try and implement a solution that would be beneficial to all. If he could somehow find the root cause of Grell's self-harm and inability to commit to work, then it was entirely possible to eliminate this behaviour in future and make sure that Grell would behave as he should. It was very much a long shot, but it would be worth the trouble.

He had been dealing with Grell personally since their schooldays, he knew by now that if left to his own devices things would only get worse, he couldn't wait for things to escalate to the point that there would be dire consequences for all . . . it had been somewhat agonising dealing with the Madame Red incident, and the very last thing he wanted was for Grell to abandon his duties and lose his mind one more time. It was best to deal with things sooner rather than later.

Will moved to the end of the sofa and sat down beside Grell.

He almost winced at how soft the cushions and backrest were, hating that the sofa was clearly designed for merely lounging upon rather than sitting back against . . . a _chaise lounge_, was that the term? It was rather an agony to sit back, especially for a man so tall, and so William found himself slouching forward a little inelegantly, glaring at the back of the man to his right.

Grell gave him a rather pleading and hopeful look from over his shoulder, before lowering his gaze and fluttering those dark eyelashes of his, and without reason – not that Grell ever acted reasonably – he suddenly gave a rather warm, yet subtle, smile with his lips closed and eyes half-smouldering. It was an extremely tempting look, Will was loath to admit, but he would certainly not be giving into it any time soon, _especially _if it were to be followed with the usual extreme form of flirting that bordered on psychotic obsession and sexual harassment.

"This talk of love and those cuts on your arms . . . has this much to do with the recent deaths of Alan Humphries and Eric Slingby? Please, bear in mind that if you make any reference to _Romeo and Juliet _that I shall strike those glasses from your face."

"You're so mean, Will!"

The redheaded man turned fully around and leant rather close into Will's personal space, so close that his face was only a breath away from the black-haired man's cheek, so close that he could feel that warm breath moist upon his skin . . . those green eyes shimmered behind the shiny surface of those glasses, and something in their expression made Will's heart beat faster and his stomach churn. He seemed to be on the verge of making actually contact, a fact that made William _very _uncomfortable.

"You're lucky that ladies are attracted to the strong, silent types, but you really ought to be nicer sometimes! Even a brute like you has to know that there's a fine line between playful _teasing_ –" Grell placed a hand on Will's bicep as squeezed hard as he pressed his chest firm against his superior's side "– and just plain _abusive_. Can't you show a lady just a little . . . _tenderness_?"

Will's eyes narrowed dangerously.

He found himself acting almost instinctively, and – in the briefest of moments – he had grabbed a firm and hard hold upon Grell's wrist, carefully avoiding touching those deep cuts, and pulled the redhead forward roughly. Grell ended up in a somewhat provocative position across William's lap, but before he could issue forth any complaint or compliment Will had raised the man's hand high in the air, bearing the arm completely, leaving Grell lying prone and vulnerable in his half-dressed state.

"W-Will!"

"I will only ask you one more time, Grell Sutcliff. Why were you late? Why are you moping so extraordinarily? Why have you cut your arm to shreds? If you do not answer then I will be forced to take more severe measures."

"W-well it's nothing to do with poor Eric and Alan! Their deaths were so tragic and so beautiful, like the wilting flowers after the final viewing of the blooming cherry blossoms -! It's not as though a Shinigami hasn't died before, though! I wasn't even that close to them, and they were so mean . . . ah, love is so painful! They had such respect for me, I'm sure, and yet they only ever teased me and mocked me!"

"You sound glad that they're dead."

"No, not quite. It isn't Ronald who brings all those Erica flowers to the office, you know . . . just because I found them mean and cruel does not mean that I did not appreciate their efforts or mourn their loss."

"But you do not mourn their loss enough to hurt yourself?"

"No, those wounds are something else . . ."

Grell pulled away abruptly as if burned. He clutched his arm tightly to his chest and stared abashedly towards the fireplace, before reaching behind him to where an ankle-length, sheer dressing gown lay. William waited patiently for Grell to cover himself, noting that the gown – being so sheer and barely able to be tied – only really covered the redhead's arms and a very small section of his abdomen. Grell's stocking-covered legs and negligee-clad torso were still on show.

Will couldn't help but stare a little too intently as Grell pulled out his hair from its place, tucked underneath the gown, and let it fall gracefully and elegantly down his back, the red hair like liquid blood, something vibrant and full of vitality, standing out starkly against his pale skin. He lay back in a lounging position, the tips of his toes and the red of his heels touching lightly against Will's thighs, and let his hair pool around his lower back and buttocks. A few stray locks of hair fell across his groin area, others cascading down over his chest, and one shorter piece soon became entwined in his fingers as he played with it needlessly.

"Do you remember the fire yesterday, Will?"

Will narrowed his eyes in a mixture of suspicion and impatience, following the movements of Grell's long fingers as they twirled that one lock of hair. The forlorn and empty expression on the redhead's face was rather unusual, and the way his eyes fell half-lidded and his smile seemed to fade only increased the aura of sadness and grief in the air around them. Will drew in a deep, resigned breath and stared into the depths of the fireplace.

"It would be hard for me to forget a fire that required an excess of Shinigami to work an obscene amount of overtime . . . especially when we are understaffed due to do to recent events concerning our deceased colleagues."

"Well I was doing my job, innocently collecting souls, and then I came across one that wasn't on my list . . . I thought that maybe it was a soul on Ronald's list, because there's no way that you would be so mean to make me take a soul like that! I walked away, thinking someone would come, but no one did . . . I thought maybe then that he was meant to live, to grow and age like a fine wine so that the world could enjoy his presence and existence -!

"I went back, Will! I went back and was determined to help him live, to maybe take him in or to give him to someone who could love him, but by the time I reached him he had already died . . . I checked my list and there he was. I had no choice but to reap him! I had to kill him! I – I always wanted a child, Will, and to see one so helpless and in need of a mother . . . only to kill him . . ."

At that revelation Will's heart sunk into his stomach . . .

Had he really allowed such a mistake to be made? Had he truly put an innocent babe onto Grell's list of people to be collected? Whilst it was true he didn't – for want of a better word – _approve _of Grell's lifestyle choices he could not help but to feel shame and mortification at allowing such a man to take such a life, not when Grell had spent his entire life craving the unconditional love of a child.

The redhead adored children. He cooed over them almost to the same extent that the filthy demon associated with Ceil Phantomhive awed and adored the feline population, and he always made mention of his desire to bear young to whoever's company he happened to be in, almost as if they could somehow make his wish come true. Grell had pestered Sebastian Michaelis for a child, he had even begged Will for one on several occasions, and he had even gone so far as to kill innocent women who were not due to die out of petty feelings of revenge and envy . . . his desire was strong, powerful, and overwhelming. It was incomprehensible how he must feel being confronted with his one and only dream, only to be denied it cruelly when the opportunity presented itself.

William had never the urge to love another. He worked independently and alone, he wasn't one to party or socialise in the way that Ronald or Eric did, and nor did he crave a family or constant romance the way that Grell and Alan did. He could not say he understood what it meant to have a life so dependent upon him, or what it might be to look upon another and feel a sense of completion and perfection, but what he did understand were the feelings of ambition. It was possible ambition was not the right word, but William felt a feeling that could be termed as nothing else. He felt a need to follow a task through to the end, to see it done to perfection, and to then move on to something better and more challenging, constantly bettering himself and his work, doing justice to his career and giving his employees a sense of pride. It may not be the same as losing a dream, a passion, or a loved one . . . but he could understand the sense of loss if he imagined the loss of his own dignity or career. He wondered if the two were truly relatable.

It was strange, but for reasons he couldn't quite understand, he felt an urge to comfort Grell and to ease his suffering. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He reached down to touch Grell's ankle, but midway in his action he froze and felt an uncomfortable stirring inside himself. It felt somewhat inappropriate to touch the redheaded man, but at the same time he understood that Grell would need and appreciate the human warmth and contact of someone else, and so – after pausing momentarily – he reached down and allowed his hand to enclose Grell's ankle.

William could feel the coarseness of the stockings beneath his fingertips and the warmth of Grell's skin beneath his palm. He was surprised at how thin and delicate Grell's ankle was, at how the other man twitched slightly at the touch, and at how natural the gesture seemed to be. It felt far too intimate. William had been physical with men and women before, but none had he ever had cause to touch their ankle.

"I am sorry for such a mistake, but you must return to work."

"Oh, how can you be so cold?"

Grell wrenched his ankle back with such force that it caused Will's arm to be yanked outwards somewhat, making him overbalance a little so that he was made to right himself again in order to maintain composure. Grell even went so far as to grab a hold of his dressing gown and throw it wildly over himself, hiding those long and thick legs from view, causing William to find himself somewhat . . . _disappointed. _The look of sheer agony on Grell's face was equally as painful to observe.

"Don't you know how much pain I am in? Oh! My heart is broken into a thousand pieces, the final scene is upon us, and the curtains fall upon my tragic loss as the music plays out its last song . . . you are worse than Sebas-chan! At least he has the decency to hit me outright; whereas you always aim straight for my heart . . . it's so very cruel! You should be more considerate."

"I should be more considerate? Do you realise that you are late for work, inconveniencing your colleagues, and that you have spent that time painting your nails and cutting your arms? I do not appreciate seeing my subordinates cut up so dramatically of their own accord. If you must come in with cuts and bruises I would prefer them to be the result of hard work, not because of some sordid love affair with abusive, demonic filth, or because you are so bored that you have nothing better to do than to cut your own flesh."

"Ah, you really are cold . . . don't you see the beauty of it?"

"The beauty of self-mutilation?"

"The beauty of blood and justice," Grell replied half-mockingly with an unusually large grin upon his features. "You know, my darling Will, that red is the colour of passion and love and life? Well, why shouldn't I want to paint myself in such colours, or bathe in the source of life itself? Ah, you don't know how it feels to be doused in the crimson beauty of life and death, that miraculous contradiction, the blood that sustains and yet can also kill! Oh, so beautiful!"

Grell sighed loudly as he placed his hands against his face, staring longingly out into the depths of the fireplace. The crimson flames licked forever upwards and cast shadowy patterns across his complexion, the red light illuminated him and highlighted the little subtleties of his expression, making his sorrow and grief shine through despite his warm smile and melodramatic gestures.

Will was left wondering if he had perhaps said something wrong, or if Grell would be continuing his speech any time soon, but – despite his desire to ask Grell outright what the direct cause for his immature behaviour could be – he instead found himself somewhat captivated by the redheaded man's unusual actions. Grell soon threw himself onto his back, his dressing gown falling open in all the worst places despite the tie still being tightly tied, and as he arched his back he lifted his arms high and stretched rather provocatively. William held back a blush as he tried to keep his gaze directly ahead upon the fire.

"Do you ever sit and listen to the ticking pendulum of a clock, my lovely Will?" Grell said in such a distracted way that William failed to see any relevance to the conversation at hand. "Back and forth, back and forth it goes, such a stable thing in an unstable world . . . slicing through that dreary, black oblivion! My, it's so comforting! My little darlings at work hate it so much, Ronald always says it just reminds him that the day is so long, but it's so comforting!"

The sigh that left Grell's lips drew William's attention to them in a manner that he would later deny, but for one moment he found himself furious at the fact that he had never before noticed how plump and soft those lips looked, and how the red lipstick only served to make them more accentuated than they otherwise would be. He couldn't help but wonder why a man with so much to offer – such strength when he applied himself, such natural beauty that he was aware of – could be so discontent as to hurt himself and cut his own flesh.

"I'm a masochist, Will. I admit it. This is different though . . . when Sebas-chan hits me I know it's because he cares! When you kick me I know that I've finally gotten your attention! When I cut . . . it's not because it's fun, but because it's comforting. I like how I can control those cuts the same way that the pendulum controls time, and the pain makes me forget how I feel. It's like I'm being punished."

"Punished? You want to be punished?"

"Of course! When you punish me I can make amends at work, and when I punish myself I can make amends with the things I have done in life. Do you know what it's like to go into work and have everyone tell you how useless you are and to quit? Do you know what it's like to walk through London wanting nothing more than a child only to see people killing theirs? Or when your darling Sebas-chan mocks you for being a man when you know – in your budding, pure, virginal heart – that you're truly a beautiful lady? I need to be punished, my lovely Will! It's what I deserve!"

"You . . . _deserve _to be punished?"

It was a phrase that William never expected to hear. It caused him to adjust his glasses nervously and turn his head to face Grell directly, to look into that serene and beautiful face as those green eyes looked back at him with infinite sorrow and pain in their features. He watched with a guilty and pained expression as Grell made eye contact with him, and he continued to watch as Grell sat upright with his legs underneath him, hands raised to press against his heart as he seemed to try and express some underlining emotion that escaped Will entirely. Suddenly he was very aware that Grell was leaning forward and leaning into his personal space, and – _suddenly_ – he felt self-conscious in a way that he hadn't before.

"Please, Grell," he continued, blushing ever so slightly as he adjusted his glasses, "be aware that if you make any jokes about being a 'bad boy', or needing a spanking, then I will kick you so hard that you will be left in no doubts about your maleness."

"As if I would joke at a time like this!"

"Then would you continue with what you were saying?"

"My, why are men so _impatient_? You always want to skip to the ending, never enjoying the simple pleasure of the journey and the chase . . . _going _somewhere can be just as much fun as _coming _back home. Do you really want me to skip the chase and get to the point?"

"Why do you deserve to be punished, Grell Sutcliff?"

Grell let out a long sigh and stood up from the sofa. The dressing gown fell down about his ankles and his long locks of hair cascaded down his back; the red hair matched the red of his gown, negligee and shoes almost perfectly. He walked to the fireplace in such a manner that William may have actually believed his colleague to be a woman, were he not aware of the man's true sex, and the way he swung his hips and appeared to walk an invisible line . . . they were not movements of a man. He moved like a woman. He moved as if he truly believed he _were _a woman.

He stood in front of the fire for so long that William was almost convinced that no answer was to follow, and yet somehow that very option seemed somewhat appealing. He enjoyed the way that the flames highlighted Grell's body, the way those long legs beneath the stockings seemed to glow almost golden in the light, and the way his cheeks appeared to have an almost permanent glow in the heat of the flames. He hated that he found himself admiring Grell, hated that the reason why those cuts appalled him so much was because they somehow tainted an otherwise perfect sculpture of a man. He wanted Grell's skin to remain as pure and untouched as his body seemed to suggest, even if he knew it had been marred many times with battle wounds and scars from fights and arguments with demons and fellow Shinigami.

"Because there's something wrong with me, Will," Grell said with such raw honesty that something inside Will broke. "This beautiful lady may be confident and talented and insanely passionate . . . but do you know how it feels for every day people to tell you that you're someone you know you're not? Sometimes I'm left wondering if I really am who I think I am or if I'm what other people think I am and if I am what other people think I am then - . . . I think I just confused myself!"

Will smiled warmly. He was glad that Grell couldn't see such a human expression.

It was somewhat warming to see a man like Grell suddenly reduced to a childlike frustration as he twirled around and clasped his hands to his cheeks, muttering and mumbling over and over incoherent phrases that did nothing to make his position any less comprehensible. Will soon remembered to school his features into a serious and neutral expression as Grell turned back to face him, making sure that the other man would not be aware of that almost human side to Will's otherwise perfect mask of apathy. It felt wrong somehow to show any emotion to Grell, not least unless the redhead started to expect such emotional displays on a regular basis.

"Luckily, I am able to understand 'idiot'," Will said gently. "Let me see if I understand the implications of this, Grell . . . when the child died it reminded you – not only of what you want most, but cannot have, but also – of the discrepancies between how you view yourself and how others see you? It was these insecurities that made you feel as if something was 'wrong' with you, thus that you needed to be 'punished'?"

"Oh, my lovely Will! You _do _understand!"

Grell ran up to him with arms wide and flung himself in a rather typical manner against Will . . . what possessed Grell to do so, considering the dozens upon dozens of times that such an act failed in the past, was beyond William's comprehension. What possessed Will, however, to _let _his flamboyant colleague assault him in such a manner was a greater cause for concern. Every cell in Will's body told him to jump from the sofa and let Grell crash into empty air, but something stronger compelled him to stay, to wrap his arms awkwardly around Grell and let him embrace him.

It felt strange to hold someone – or to allow someone to hold him – when they were barely dressed and dressed in such a provocative outfit, and as Grell wrapped his arms around his neck tightly he caught scent of strawberry shampoo and floral perfume. He could feel how silky those locks were against his skin, and he could feel how firm and yet delicate those arms were that touched him. It was so difficult for him to return the embrace, but somehow he managed it, allowing his hands to wrap themselves around Grell in return, feeling the firm back beneath his fingertips and the way Grell's chest heaved up and down with each chuckling breath, and relishing in the way that the other's warm body felt against him. It was reassuring. It was nice to feel someone against him out of affection rather than violence or lust, and – most of all – nice to reassure himself that Grell was alive and well.

When Grell pulled back he kept his hands firmly on Will's shoulder and gave him such a warm and bright smile that Will at once felt pain and pleasure, the two emotions rolling into one burning inferno that he could barely control or understand, something dark and dangerous. He hated those warm feelings that he felt for Grell, despised himself for wanting a man that he loathed on sight, but at the same time he hated even more the fact that Grell returned those feelings by looking at him so platonically, so _innocently_ . . .

"Do you really understand, Will?"

Will nodded, adjusting his glasses once again, "I do."

He stood up slowly and gently removed Grell's hands from his shoulders, causing the redhead to give him a rather confused and puzzled look from behind his glasses, something that – in turn – caused William's stomach to lurch coldly and painfully in his stomach. He saw something in Grell's face that he recognised, but could not fully understand. The fury inside him at such confused and conflicted emotions threatened to boil to the surface, but he held it back, he held in his anger and maintained his composure whilst he coldly looked Grell over, trying to ignore the sudden emptiness to his eyes and the fall to his smile.

"I understand that there really _is _something wrong with you," Will snapped coldly. "You will cease this infernal, childish cutting of yours. You will try to dress more professional and like the _man _that you are. You will – _most of all _– be on time tomorrow and make up today with overtime. I trust that is in your power to do?"

"W-Will?"

"I will see you tomorrow at nine o'clock, Grell Sutcliff."

Will stormed out of the drawing room with such intensity that the doors slammed loudly behind him, causing his ears to reverberate with the sound. He left the house with bittersweet feelings, knowing that he was acting in the best interests for the Shinigami society, but at the same time feeling an insane feeling of guilt for how he had treated a man so obviously lost in insane grief. Grell was always so melodramatic; surely this was nothing but another expression of that dramatic personality?

William didn't turn around as he walked away. He couldn't.

He couldn't bear to see the expression on Grell's face.

He couldn't bear to see that pain . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Important A/N**: I recognise that Grell is female, and I have great personal sympathy for those who have Gender Identity Disorder, but – for practical reasons – I have chosen to use male personal pronouns. I _did _try to correct my mistake, but changing the pronouns at this late stage just seemed to cause too much confusion. So _please _bear in mind that I do not mean any disrespect. Thanks for your understanding!

**Chapter Two **

"Ah, misfortune really _does _come in through a merry gate!"

Grell gave the giggling man a sharp glare.

There was very little more annoying than being laughed at, except for – perhaps – being laughed at by a man who sounded somewhat like a schoolgirl having inhaled helium. It grated on his nerves more than just a little. The only thing that stopped him from attacking the silver-haired man was the fact he was sure that it wasn't meant in mockery, or – at least – it better _not _have been . . .

The Undertaker carefully steepled his fingers together so that his long black nails came together at a point, and from behind them he lowered his head to observe the redheaded man from behind his grey bangs. He knew how disconcerting it could be for his _friends _to be on the receiving end of such a stare, how they sometimes felt as if they were being stared at by a man no longer alive, how they felt the weight of his unmoving stare whilst unable to fully perceive it . . . he became to them like a doll, or even like one of his own _clients_. That fixed gaze could perturb anyone . . . even if they couldn't see it, only feel it!

"Here, my dear," he said cheerfully, "why not help yourself to some refreshments?"

The silver-haired man picked up a tray from on top of a nearby coffin.

It was something of a relief to both men that the tea had finished brewing, because – with the birth of that new scent – the foul and oppressive odour of disinfectant and embalming fluid was broken sharply in two. The aroma of tea cut through the air like a scalpel through flesh. It tore out the chemical scents from ones senses, biting down into the nostrils so that a fresh pain could be felt instead, but with that pain came the knowledge that the previous tumour-like scent was finally removed.

The only sounds in the room seemed to be the occasional rattle of the tray's contents, a tray carried perched between two sets of deathly white fingers, and a strange – almost eerie – sound of what appeared to be moaning or crying. It was possible that the sound was merely a figment of the imagination. The vials of blood stacked on desks, the bodies strewn about in open coffins, and the various organs entombed in glass cells on the walls . . . it all added to the terrifying and eerie atmosphere that gave the Undertaker his reputation as a man only worth visiting as a 'last resort'. Grell had seen every shade of red and every shape of organ imaginable, and yet even he felt somewhat overwhelmed by the sights scattered all around him.

The Undertaker moved with slow and steady movements to his side. He lowered the tray just enough for Grell to examine its contents, and – so it seemed – there was very little of anything he felt safe taking. The tea had been served in beakers used for keeping organs, and the cake was served in a kidney-bowl used for draining blood . . . both items would never be clean enough for Grell to ever consider eating or drinking from them, no matter what kinds of disinfectant the Undertaker decided to use!

"Perhaps I'll just take a biscuit from the tin," Grell said politely.

The Undertaker laughed a little too quietly, "I understand. A lady must watch her figure, correct? You should be careful though, many of my guests started off on a mere diet, but they could never be thin enough . . . amazing how the beauty they craved could only be achieved in death! So beautiful! So beautiful! Don't you just envy them? Don't you wish to _be like _them?"

Grell sighed as he reached for a biscuit and twirled it between his fingers. He couldn't help but note how oddly shaped it was, almost like a bone, and how – in hindsight –_apt_ it was that the Undertaker should serve biscuits so suited to his profession. It seemed that even through his hosting skills he sought to remind one of the transient and ephemeral nature of life, proving that death was everywhere and that everything was a constant reminder of death . . . Grell wondered if he had baked the biscuits with all of that in mind, or if he was merely reading too much into a simple kind act in a desperate desire for meaning.

"Heavens, no!" Grell took an uneasy bite and looked upwards in longing. "There isn't any beauty in a body not bathed in crimson! Ah, when I die I want to die in a sea of blood and gore, surrounded by the most passionate colour, knowing that I was never more alive than in that moment of death! Why, I can think of nothing more miserable than starving to death or dying in my sleep!"

"My, what an _unusual _lady you are!"

"Ah, am I a lady though? Will doesn't seem to think so . . ."

The Undertaker giggled loudly and lifted his hand to cover his mouth. The contents of the tray rattled in his now unstable right hand, holding it without its partner to support it, and he had no choice but to dispose of the tray on top of a nearby table. It was only when the tray was out of his hands that he ceased his laughter. He reached upwards to a high shelf and fiddled with something unseen, something just out of Grell's line of sight . . . it captured Grell's full interest and made him more than curious.

Grell actually found himself leaning forwards, his hands elegantly placed on his knees as he tried to maintain a ladylike pose, making sure he only crossed his legs at the ankles and didn't lean forward too obscenely. His red hair fell in front of his eyes just ever so slightly, making his world turn an intense shade of red for a brief moment in time, and – through that red curtain – he managed to catch sight of the Undertaker pulling down a large, glass jar. There was something inside. Grell wanted to see what, but all he could see was a blur of a disgusting brownish-purple blob, and then . . . nothing! The Undertaker cradled the jar to his chest and stood facing Grell.

"Do you know what this is, my dear?"

Grell frowned behind his glasses and tried not to curl his lip in disgust, if only for the sheer fact that a curled lip couldn't be further from ladylike behaviour! Still . . . in the jar sat – in the midst of a bitter-looking liquid – a human heart. It was so fresh and firm that Grell half expected it to start beating, instead it lay eerily still imprisoned in its glass tomb, forever separated from the body destined to hold it. Grell swilled the crumbs of the biscuit around in his mouth, suddenly too nauseous to swallow.

"My, you treat me so shamefully!" Grell said with a pout. "It's the very symbol of life and death! It's the thing that beats inside us and compels us to act forever on the stage of life! Ah, the human heart . . . so easily broken, isn't it?"

The Undertaker laughed and opened the lid to the jar.

He reached into that liquid with long, steady fingers. Grell winced as those digits encased the heart and removed it slowly and steadily; watery liquid slid down his skin and nails and scattered drops unevenly on his robe, and as he moved slightly the liquid splashed over the edges of the jar and onto the floor. His grin never left his face. His laughter never died on his lips. He merely lifted the heart and then – with insane laughter – squashed it in his palm so that it was nothing more than a shredded mass of muscle, no longer of any use, no longer of any discernable shape . . .

"I would never have been able to break my guest's heart," he laughed loudly, throwing the useless pulp into the jar with a hideous splash, "if she had never given it to me! I cannot break what I do not have!"

"How . . . _poignant_."

"Indeed!" The silver-haired man put the glass to one side and moved to wash his hands. "I always think that life is so _educational_, don't you? It is just a shame that most of life's lessons are only learned on death's door . . . I have told Earl Phantomhive what he must learn, so perhaps you would honour me by letting me tell you a lesson that you must learn? Hmm? I would hate for a young lady to have to learn such an easy lesson through the harsh instructor of Death."

Grell let out a long groan of frustration and boredom; whilst he flicked back his long locks with a gloved hand. The look on his face was a perfectly sculpted expression of confusion, expressing both a look of contempt and of – perversely – utmost fascination and respect. His lip curled and nostrils flared, almost as if physically repelled by the Undertaker and his display, but – at the same time – his green eyes were locked on that silver-haired man and his body language was casual and relaxed, almost as if he was being drawn to the very man that repelled him. He wanted to know just as much as he wanted ignorance, and the Undertaker saw that. It made the Undertaker laugh harder than before.

"Haven't I learnt all my lessons already?" Grell complained.

"Nope! You Shinigami . . . you reap souls so easily, the same way that the undertaker cuts into a body, and like how the undertaker reads the records of their biological life through the records left behind in their flesh . . . _you_ read the records of their life in _cinematic records_." The way he spat the last two words seemed almost venomous. "Who is it that reads their _hearts _though? If humans can see their bodies, if Shinigami can view their lives . . . who views the heart of a soul?"

"Does it matter?"

The Undertaker swept across the room as if in a dance with himself. His movements were circular and wide, graceful and composed, and he hummed some tune to himself that Grell couldn't quite place . . . if it wasn't for the lack of glasses Grell may have even sworn that he was viewing the dance of Death. It was surreal and eerie. It seemed so out of place . . . such happiness and joy in a place of such despair and death, and yet the man giggled and danced as if to an unseen waltz!

He stopped somewhere in a far corner and sat down beside a fresh corpse. It seemed to Grell as if he was to begin painting the face of the body that lay beside him, almost as if he sought to get back to work at his earliest convenience. Grell let out a long sigh and wandered across the room with dejected movements; his back was hunched over as he rubbed his neck awkwardly, and his eyes without the usual passion that they often contained. The Undertaker merely hummed to himself as he picked up a brush between his thumb and index finger, and – with subtle and gentle movements – began to paint some colour into the palling complexion of what was once a fair maiden. Grell sat beside him on an old stool and watched with disinterest.

"Maybe it doesn't matter that the heart is unknowable," the Undertaker said with a soft laugh. "Who knows why laughter eases the soul? It is quite a queer thing! No one knows what lies inside a heart . . . no human has ever known, no Shinigami, no demon . . . and does it matter what William _sees_ when he sees _nothing_?

"Our William is such a joker . . . and what are jokes if not untrue words? Only _you_ can know the truth of what you feel, my Lady. Why not find humour from a man who can only presume to know the heart of another? It is sad to think that humour should be absent from the heart of a lady . . . would you not smile for me? At the very least . . . have another biscuit."

Grell didn't ask why the grave man had a biscuit barrel inside the make-up case, but he _did _politely accept another without hesitation. His yellow-green eyes watched the Undertaker with a morbid fascination, wondering why it was that a lady in death needed to be made so exquisitely as if in life, and – with a sharp pain in his chest – he wondered why it was that he could never look that way.

It didn't matter what fake eyelashes he wore, or what shade of red he painted his lips, and nor did it matter that he spent more time in women's clothes than out (well, aside from work, of course) . . . he would never have that woman's shape or that woman's beauty. His colleagues would forever see him as a man. They just didn't understand that every time he looked in a mirror that he didn't see a man looking back at him, that – instead – all he saw was a woman trapped inside a body that he had no right to abide in. It was as if God were punishing him! He would never be treated as a lady, never be truly loved by Sebastian or Will, and never able to carry young inside him the way that he so craved . . . ah, it was times like these he almost missed Madame Red! She understood exactly how exacerbating the whole thing was . . .

He didn't mind that William was so cold and cruel; it was – after all – a part of what made him . . . _interesting_. He was the only man strong enough to have defeated Grell in a fight, other than Sebastian, and he was just so cold and detached and strong -! He was fascinating, he was the kind of man that left Grell feeling goosebumps all over his body, wondering what the man would be like under that cold and icy façade, just what would happen when the flaming red heat of Grell melted that frosty exterior! It just would have been nice if William recognised him as a _woman ._ . . he didn't even have to be nice – in fact Grell would have preferred him to be colder and crueller – just so long as he treated Grell like the lady he was and deserved to be . . .

It was just impossible for Grell not to replay the previous night's conversation over and over in his head. He just wanted to know what he had said to upset poor Will! It was as if the other man didn't even _care _that he was hurting. He had seen the cuts on his arms, the bruise on his face, and he had heard all about Grell reaping that poor boy's soul and yet . . . _he didn't even care_! It was enough to reduce a lesser lady to tears. William could have easily driven Grell to death, like the daring and darling Ophelia! Love destroying all!

Even Hamlet had loved Ophelia _once_ though . . . what reason had Will to be so cruel and cold? It couldn't be envy, because even though Grell had the higher grades he hadn't done nearly so well in their chosen career, and it couldn't be lust unless William truly had a dangerous and sadistic side . . . Grell shuddered at the thought and a smile swept over his face. He always loved dangerous men!

"I wouldn't be so sad today if William would just pay me some attention," Grell said sadly as if to the air itself. "I'm so melancholy that I dread to _think_ what I would look like without my make-up! It's awful! Beautiful men always surround me and yet I can't even so much as manage a smile today! My . . . isn't life so cruel!"

"You remind me of Earl Phantomhive," the Undertaker said with a soft, muffled giggle. "He never learns his lessons either . . . such a shame, such a shame! Have you forgotten how to laugh already?"

"Hey! You can't -! Say . . ." Grell paused, looking suspiciously at the biscuit in his hand. "Just what kind of biscuit is this anyway? It's awfully dry."

The Undertaker giggled louder this time.

The sound was muffled beneath his long, black sleeve that now covered his mouth in an almost elegant manner. It was as if he communicated through the language of laughter, the same way that Alan once understood the language of flowers, or the way that Grell understood the language of clothing . . . it was as if in one simple sound he could express one thousand meanings! A deep-throated laugh for amusement, a soft and muffled giggle for dark fascination, and an open-mouthed giggle as an invitation to continue . . . a million sounds and each with its own story to tell.

He paused in his ministrations to look at Grell. The second he saw the dark and extremely dangerous glare, however, he stopped his laughter to let out a very low and staccato chuckle that expressed an utmost nervousness and frustration with his situation. Grell hoped that the silver-haired man knew better by now than to play games, otherwise some wise guy was getting a bath in salt again . . .

"I'm not sure," the Undertaker admitted. "The man at the pet store assured me that it was the very best of the best . . . good for a glossy coat, too!"

"Why, you –"

"_What_!" Huh, Grell knew that voice . . . "You have _got_ to be joking!"

The very sound of that boyish voice had both men jumping in their skin.

The funeral parlour had been so quiet until that very moment, so silent and eerily still, and now – as if having stepped out of the air itself – appeared the Earl in the doorway to break the deathly peace that endured even Grell's presence.

Grell had to wonder how the Earl did it. He always managed to erode one's sense of self and make one doubt even their very existence, as if his very life was some sort of supernatural anomaly that touched some nerve deep inside a person, reminding them of the sanctity of life and the sacrilege of his living. He commanded attention. He _demanded _respect. He was Earl Phantomhive and Grell – even in his depressed state – couldn't help but feel _something _upon seeing him, even if he couldn't say what.

It shouldn't have been possible, but somehow the Earl made even the Undertaker lose his precious laughter and don a somewhat serious expression, and he even managed to make Grell lose that passion he so adored and become a tiny bit more indifferent than he otherwise was. His very presence somehow changed men and women. No one ever acted the same around him, whether that was Madame Red's moment of weakness or Sebastian's appalling humanity . . . it almost made Grell jealous! What did he have to do to get that kind of attention? If he could make William respect him like that then he would finally have at least _one _cute man interested in him! Then again . . . William wouldn't be so interesting if he was _nice_, would he?

The young earl wore such a furious expression that it was almost cute! His left eye was scrunched up into a tight ball, his eyebrows knitted together as if trying to entwine themselves as one, and his entire posture and body language had changed into something very different indeed. It was the difference between a soft and supple woman in the midst of sleep suddenly changing into that of a statue, something unreal and surreal and ethereal all at once! It was quite the change!

Grell wanted to _feel_ that anger. He wanted to see how far he could push that dark-haired boy until he snapped entirely, and he wanted to know what he would do when he was eventually pushed. Would he be like Sebastian and seek to kill, or would he be like William and seek merely to cause pain, or would he be something else entirely? Would he hurt Grell? _Could _he hurt Grell? It was a fascinating prospect. The redheaded Shinigami both dreaded and desired the day that the little lord would grow up to be a real man, and he couldn't help but shiver in anticipation.

Those little suspenders and socks made him look so young, so _juvenile_, but the eye-patch and cane added years to him beyond that which should have been normal. It was such a fascinating contradiction! He was a web of intrigue, a mixture of paradoxes, a spell of originality, a breath of fresh air! He was also a complete brat and he was interrupting Grell mid-sentence! It was the height of rudeness to interrupt a lady!

"You – you let me eat _dog biscuits_!" Ceil screamed. "I ate dozens of those things whilst we were sailing on the boat, and you let me eat them? I should let the Shinigami and Sebastian do what they wish with you!"

"Huh?" Grell looked around at the mention of Sebastian's name. "Did you mention Sebas-chan? Ah! Where is he? Oh, how could I forget that my darling Sebby is always with you! Oh, such a beautiful specimen of a man is wasted on a child like you! What can _you _do with such a _stallion_? Even if you knew how to ride him you wouldn't have the skill to win the derby! Oh, _Sebas-chan_! Where are you?"

It was then that Grell laid eyes on the man directly behind Ciel Phantomhive.

Sebastian stood as tall and powerful as he ever had. He was true perfection! Only a truly perfect man could make such a bland outfit of black look regal and stunning; Grell had been completely suicidal when forced to don such a plain outfit, although that was perhaps partly to do with being made to act so much like a man . . . he was glad to be back in red! Why Sebastian had to pick such morbid colours was beyond Grell's understanding, but Grell could endure it if it meant that Sebastian would one day paint him red . . . only _one _of them needed to be vibrant after all, and Grell was passionate enough for two!

Grell jumped to his feet and felt a swoon overcome him.

He let out a long and high-pitched moan of appreciation, clasping his hands in front of his chest as if in prayer to whatever god had deigned to create such a chiselled and beautiful specimen. He really was 'the paragon of animals'! Shakespeare himself would have wept at such a sight! No words could describe Sebastian except 'perfection'! Grell wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was too star-struck. He could only grin widely in awe, his shark-like teeth on prominent display, and his eyes half-lidded in a lustful appreciation.

It was then that Sebastian smiled. The sight at once broke all of Grell's self-control. It was just far too tempting to see that raven-haired man smile that subtle, sexy smile of his and not want to jump him! It wasn't even a sincere smile, more of a strong and powerful 'I'm in control and you're not' kind of smile that expressed arrogance and attitude! It was simply too much to bear!

"Oh, Sebastian!"

Grell took a running dive for the smiling demon and opened his arms wide, reaching for the impossible dream. His gloved hands only met with air as Sebastian sidestepped the embrace, causing Grell to crash painfully to the floor with a hideous bang. By the time the redhead managed to achingly sit on his haunches the demon could only tilt his head innocently to one side and smile with his eyes closed. He looked almost angelic wearing such an expression. It almost made Grell cry!

"I apologise, _Mister _Grell," Sebastian said cruelly. "I must not have seen you."

"Oh, you're as cruel as Will, Sebas-chan! You still owe me one kiss; I'll have you know! Your master _promised _me one! If you don't kiss me then you're making your master renege on his word! You're a bad butler! Oh, what a cruel man you are!"

"I am sorry, but my lord requires some vital information regarding a specific case," Sebastian said, bowing just slightly with his right hand upon his breast in an elegant manner. "Unless you have any information pertaining to the recent murders in Piccadilly then I must ask you to leave. I also request you to take my lord with you. There is nothing humorous about a temper tantrum and we _do _need this information quite urgently, so please entertain Earl Phantomhive outside for a moment."

Grell frowned as he sat inelegantly on the floor. His coat had fallen about his arms and lay cast about him like a river of scarlet fabric, and his long hair seemed like blood against the deathly pale white of his shirt.

It always seemed to end the exact same way. If he wasn't outright being fought and attacked then he was being used and manipulated, whether that was being used as a shield to climb a clock tower or as a babysitter whilst Sebastian screwed a nun . . . Grell didn't mind, or at least he _wouldn't _have minded, but he could have at least had some recognition for his talents! Grell was strong, independent, and had a fierily passionate personality! His talents were wasted on such mundane tasks for a man that didn't even appreciate them, and all he ever wanted was appreciation . . .

Will still treated him like a nuisance, blaming him for what happened on many a mission and the fact that Sebastian had won in their first ever fight, and it certainly wasn't fair! Grell was an excellent Shinigami and he was also a fine lady, he didn't deserve to be ignored and bullied, and he _certainly _didn't deserve mean Sebastian's constant comments concerning his gender! Did no one have any sympathy for him?

"Hey," Grell snapped, climbing onto his feet so that he could wave his finger wildly in front of Sebastian's face, "you can't treat me that way! I'm a Shinigami and a lady to _die _for! If red is the colour of passion then I'm _flaming_! You can't treat a lady like this, you – you – . . . you _demon_!"

"Oh? I am sorry," Sebastian replied, still with a smile. "I shall take note of that. If I see a lady in future I will know now not to treat her as I treat you, _Mister _Sutcliff."

"Oh, how mean! How cold! You treat me like Olivia treated Orsino! You know, my darling Sebas-chan, that the more you keep me at arm's length the more my hands itch to hold you! It's just mean though that you ask me to play babysitter to a child, _again_! How can you request that of me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I say 'request'? How unforgivable for this mere butler to confuse such simple words. I meant 'leave now and take my master with you, if not then I will be forced to scar that ugly complexion of yours'."

Grell's expression fell completely.

There remained traces of a faint pout, something stern and yet subtle, as his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, but his folded arms and sorrowful eyes expressed his dissatisfaction at being treated in such a manner. It reminded him of nothing more than the times that William had kicked him or yelled at him or pulled his hair . . . it was as if he was nothing more than an object to be used, some foul thing to be discarded once its purpose had been served, and it was a feeling he despised.

It was made all the worse by the expression that the Undertaker gave to him. It was something akin to pity or remorse, as if he felt _sorry _for Grell! It was one thing to be abused and mistreated – _that _Grell could endure and somewhat enjoyed, he felt as if he somewhat deserved it and it was _nice _to be noticed, regardless of the reason behind the attention – but to be _pitied _was something else entirely!

The Undertaker's smile had fallen into nothing more than a slightly raised line, his head downwards so that if he had been the type to wear glasses he would have been looking _over _them, and his fingers were pressed together into a steeple once more. He looked like he was both _analysing _the situation and finding amusement from it, and it was bloody frustrating! It made Grell want to bury him to the neck in sand once more, so that maybe – just _maybe _– he would eventually learn just how deadly Grell was and what the redhead was capable of doing to him. Then again – at the same time – who else had ever referred to Grell as a woman? Who else had ever taken Grell's abuse with good humour? Who else had even talked to Grell with respect and as an equal?

Suddenly the redheaded Shinigami found himself blushing . . .

"Fine, I'll just wait outside, shall I?"

"That would be very considerate of you."

"Humph! Well this lady knows when she's not wanted! Come on, brat, I'm in no mood to baby-sit for a kid who shouldn't even be alive right now, so make sure you don't talk to me, got that?"

Grell ignored the shouting and rants of Ceil Phantomhive. The way he saw it any temper tantrums and plays for control were up to Sebastian to deal with, what with being the kid's guardian-by-proxy, and whilst Grell craved the unconditional love of a child of his own Earl Phantomhive wasn't even _close _to what he wanted from a child. The boy was a brat, and – yes – Grell would damn well sulk about being made to watch him outside! Still, if it was Sebastian asking . . .

The redheaded Shinigami marched in fury to the doors of the funeral parlour, his arms folded tightly across his chest, and his head high with a look of contempt across his features, but – as he thought about doing his darling Sebastian a favour – his expression abruptly changed. His head suddenly dropped down so that he wasn't walking with his chin in the air, and his left hand came upwards so his index finger could press against his cheek in thought. The expression of irritation had been replaced with contemplation. He knew he was being used again and yet he was allowing it as if he _wanted _it! True, he _did _want to be needed, but he wasn't exactly winning the love of _either _of his favourite men, and if mindlessly doing what Sebastian wanted wasn't doing him any favours then what was the point? It made him wish that he had paid more attention to what the Undertaker had said, but it had been such useless advice! It hadn't explained how to win William's respect or Sebastian's heart at all!

He hadn't even realised that he had walked right outside until he felt the young brat pushed outside with him, and then heard the heavy slam of a door snapping shut behind them both. The sound made him wince. It was so abrupt and harsh that it felt as if he was being shut out metaphorically as well as literally, and it just left him feeling alienated as well as isolated. His colleagues wished he would retire, William hated him, and Sebastian couldn't care less if he lived or died . . . Grell sighed.

It sometimes felt like Ronald and the Undertaker were his only friends in the world.

"I swear," Ceil muttered, "if he's kicked us out just to tickle that creepy fiend then I'll be royally pissed. That dog forgets who his master is."

"I hope he's not doing anything rude!" Grell retaliated. "I don't want anyone to touch my darling Sebastian except me! He'll come out of there smelling like corpses and death! Ah! It's not _fair_!"

"I do not understand what is so secret anyway."

"It's like he doesn't even know I exist!"

"Still, if it is the only way to get information from the Undertaker then it's a sacrifice I shall have to make. I suppose letting the pawn play the role of king for a few minutes is acceptable, if it hastens the moment to the checkmate . . ."

Ciel crossed his arms and leant back against the wall, staring listlessly at his feet as he waited for the moment that the whole charade was over and he could return inside. He hated feeling like a lost puppy, kicked out of its kennel as if it had done some wrong, and he _especially _disliked being told what to do by someone his social inferior. Sebastian was merely a working class man, he had no right to boss Ciel around.

Grell, meanwhile, simply squirmed back and forth and listened intently at the door. He couldn't help but whine and groan as all sorts of horrid images flew through his mind, but – somehow – it wasn't just jealousy over Sebastian that caused him to feel so helpless. He couldn't help but note the way that the Undertaker had looked at him, a way that Sebastian and William had never done before . . .

"Maybe I should date the Undertaker instead," Grell said with a long sigh. "That might make Sebastian and William jealous enough to understand what they're missing! Still, he's not even that cute, and he has stupid hair . . . he's not like Will at all! Oh, why are they taking so _long_?"

Ciel's eyebrow twitched dangerously.

"Why do I feel as if we're having two very separate conversations?"

"Huh? Did you say something?"

Ciel's reaction was cut short by the sound of laughter.

Both men turned to face the door with a rather incredulous expression; Grell wondering why the demon didn't just settle for violence, and Ciel wondering what had taken so long for the laughter to break. It was such a strange and odd sound. It suited the Undertaker well, being that it was a kind of deep-seated cackling that broke through all other sounds and echoed about so that no one could escape its presence. It was overpowering and sincere and robust. It was perfect for the silver-haired man.

Grell had to wonder when the last time it was that he had laughed like that . . . it just seemed that lately everything was about work, and it was just all so tiresome and boring! He wanted romance and adventure! He wanted to be swept off his feet by some beautiful man and live a life of action and adventure! It just wasn't fair that even the Undertaker got to experience utmost joy at Sebastian's hands, not when Grell was doomed to forever be without the things he truly wanted and needed! Was it not enough that God had forced him into such a masculine body, or that Will couldn't even recognise him as female, did God really have to make everyone – including that little brat – fall in love except for him?

The doors reopened to reveal Sebastian standing there looking as perfect as ever. He wore an almost satisfied smile as he tilted his head slightly to one side and looked rather longingly at Ciel, and – when he opened his eyes at last – his eyes were an eerie and painful shade of red. They seemed to penetrate deeply into Grell's soul as Grell stared back – love-struck – and yet they were so cold and menacing! It was heartbreaking to want a man so much and to not be wanted in return!

"Oh, are you still here Mister Sutcliff?"

It was then that Grell's newfound smile collapsed into an expression of despair. The cold waves of doubt and pain washed over him so that he was left feeling empty and meaningless, recoiling as he felt the grief of the boy he reaped and wincing as he remembered the same indifference to his feelings expressed by William . . . he wanted to cry, but he was Grell Sutcliff! There was no way a man like Grell would show any emotion before a demon . . . besides, he would never hear the end of it from Will if he did! Still . . . what he wouldn't give for Sebastian to strike him, to hit him, to make him bleed! At least it would show he cared enough _to _hit him . . .

"Fine, a lady knows better than to outstay her welcome," Grell said, turning his back to Sebastian with a frown. "I'll just get back to work, shall I? You'll be sorry when I leave, my lovely Sebas-chan! I'll be gone and you'll miss me, but oh no -! I'll be work and you won't be able to have me! Alas, absence does make the heart grow fonder, but –"

"Oh, are you _still_ here?"

"Humph!"

Grell turned abruptly away with an infuriated expression, but – the moment his face was out of sight – he let it fall so as to express his pain, even if no one but himself knew that the pain was there in his heart. He wasn't sure what to do. If he stormed away he would only have to face the cruel and spiteful temperament of William, but if he stayed then he would only be the in the way of the man he most admired and the man he most loved and the insufferable brat . . .

"I know when I'm not wanted!"

It was certainly true, only his confidence was starting to break under last night's conversation with Will . . . perhaps he should care less about what that man thought, perhaps the Undertaker was right that he shouldn't give his heart so freely, but what was life without love? He had too much love not to give it out freely! It just hurt him that no one _wanted _that love . . . why did they treat him like a _burden_?

For the first time in a long time he regretted how things had ended with Madame Red, because – for the first time ever – he realised that no one understood him the way that she had, that no one had ever needed him as she had, and – not for the last time – he longed for the days when he could take out his rage and anger on souls who deserved it most. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to make the women on the streets bleed so that their bodies were painted red with blood, their faces fallen in a pale porcelain despair. They constantly bore children they didn't want, they had men wrapped around their little fingers, they had the bodies he so craved for his own, and did they appreciate it? No.

Grell stormed away as he made up his mind.

Today he would bathe in the colour red, but the blood he bathed in would not be his own . . . somebody had to pay. Demotions no longer mattered. William could only punish him so much, and then what? What could Will do to make Grell suffer that the redhead didn't already do to himself? It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. If he weren't allowed to die then he would make someone else die in his place.

Tonight he would see red.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: This was going to be three chapters in total, but it'll probably be four or five now. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far :)

**Chapter Three**

Ronald froze.

His hand hung midair – poised ready to knock upon that heavy door – motionless and lifeless, almost like a puppet with its strings cut suddenly and abruptly, all except that one that held his hand in place . . .

He had been so resolute, so decisive and intuitive, that he hadn't even stopped to _think _about his actions in the heat of the moment. He had just run immediately to the office and thought over and over and over about the only option available to him, because there was only _one _option. William. He needed William. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to turn, anyone else who would understand, and given the urgency of the situation and how important a speedy resolution was . . . Mr Spears would understand, wouldn't he?

You had to do the job that was in front of you. That was Ronald's life motto, wasn't it? You just had to get the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible, that way there was more time for flirting with the girls and partying with the guys! Yeah, sometimes overtime was unavoidable, it cut into his fun, it bored him to tears, but that was part of the job and his duty . . . all you could do was to do the new job that had cropped up, count your blessings that you sometimes got paid a little extra, and then just hope that Mr Sutcliff would behave himself so that you wouldn't be stuck with _more _overtime the next day. So no, he wouldn't complain or whine about his lot, he would deal with it like a man! That meant actually _dealing _with it though . . .

It was pretty intimidating staring down Mr Spears' door.

He could hear the methodical scribbling of a pen being pressed hard against paper on a desk, he could hear the swish of documents being flipped over every now and again, and he could hear the occasional pause – followed with a sigh of irritation – and then a murmur of 'Grell'. It wasn't reassuring in the least! If Grell were already causing trouble with excess paperwork, then Mr Spears _really _wouldn't like this at all.

It was always difficult to face the boss, regardless of the situation or how fair that superior was, but he knew that he had no choice. It was a matter of life and death! Well, _so to speak_. If he didn't face William now then he never would, and he would never be able to live with himself if something bad were to inevitably happen, which it _would_, because it always _did_. Grell would never forgive him for essentially ratting him out to Mr Spears, but what other options were there?

He had one path to follow, one as clear as the eye chart next to William's door . . . speaking of which . . . wasn't it just a little blurred? Huh, he'd have to go back to the glasses department and change his prescription. He could only hope that his eyes wouldn't deteriorate to the point that he'd be like the boss, blind as a bat without those spectacles to see with . . .

"What am I doing?" Ronald murmured with a sigh. "It's not like lingering outside the doorway is going to make any of this better. Just better hope it's not a case of 'don't shoot the messenger'. Ah, so not fair!"

Ronald ran a hand through his blond locks and groaned loudly. He cast his gaze downwards, closed his eyes, and then scratched his head as he tried his best not to mess up his brown and blond hair. He felt so damned awkward just standing there, but it'd be even weirder to go into William's office and tell him -! Huh, tell him _what _exactly? Well, he'd just have to wing it!

It was then he found the courage to knock. He rapped heavily on the door before him and tried to hold back a yawn as the late night the night before came back to bite him on the ass . . . he was starting to feel old, but he _really _needed an early night!

"Yo, Mister Spears, are you free?"

"Indeed, I am." The long pause that followed was rather unnerving. Ronald nearly backed off and walked away to find someone else. "You may enter if you wish. I believe I have time in my schedule to accommodate you."

"Ah, right. Thanks, sir!"

The door opened almost silently and closed with a soft click. It was a rather disconcerting noise and made Ronald jump ever so slightly, thinking that – maybe, _just maybe _– someone had followed him into the room. Usually the idea of someone standing right behind him wouldn't be a cause of concern, but what with the _situation _that urgently needed Mr Spears' attention . . . well, the idea of a certain person behind him in that certain state was a fear that caused a shudder to run down his spine.

He composed himself pretty quickly and loosened his tie, the gesture more for something to do with his gloved hands than for any real need for air or comfort. William sat opposite him at a large white desk, hands clasped in front of him upon the surface of said desk in a rather regal manner, and – as he sat – his posture was so perfect that Ronald couldn't help but wonder if the man _ever _relaxed. He always treated everything so seriously, he never attended the office parties, and he always spoke so formally, even to his peers! Then again, now wasn't really the time to be analysing the actions of his superiors. They had worked together once, it was a memorable experience and he had learned a lot, but – personally – he always preferred working with Grell . . . well, providing that Mr Sutcliff wasn't on a job that involved that raven-haired demon.

"Is there something you needed, Ronald Knox?"

Ronald jumped ever so slightly. His shoulders pulled back and his head perked upwards so that he was paying full attention to his boss, he suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and on display. It was kind of like that guilty feeling he used to have when he would be forced to stand before his tutors in their office, having to explain just _why _his reports were late or why he'd been late for class . . . he _always _felt as if his superiors could see into his soul. It was as if they _knew _he was hiding something!

"Err, yeah," he began, lifting some papers in his right hand, almost as if by looking at them he could somehow change what he was about to say. "It's about Mr Sutcliff, sir. I thought you'd want to know, you know?"

"If you're referring to the fact he did not appear for work today, I already know."

"Nah, that's not it!" Ron said with a smile.

"Then what _is_ it, Mr Knox? I am starting to get _very _annoyed."

"You know," Ronald said, pressing his index finger against his cheek in thought. "It's not fair that you're always so disappointed to see me! You always seem to resent when we're paired off together, and you always give Grell-sempai the easiest jobs! I might even be jealous if I didn't respect Mister Sutcliff so much! Why are you so _mean _to the poor guy?"

"Are you questioning my managerial skills when it comes to my subordinates?"

"Nah, it's not like that. I just think he's a good guy, he deserves better! You're like his . . . I don't know . . . his role model or something. He's helping me think up a new catchphrase! I'm thinking of 'slice of death', but that sounds almost as bad as 'to die'. What do you think, Sir?"

"Ronald Knox, _the reason you are here_ . . ."

Ronald wilted a little under that intense stare, feeling a cold chill spread through his bones as William adjusted his glasses by the arm with a clinical detachment to the situation at hand.

He always felt as if he was being analysed and scrutinised every time the older man glanced his way, as if he was staring _through _him, almost like a ghost in some respects. It was like Ronald didn't really matter. In fact, the only reason he _did _matter was because without him they would be too short-staffed to cope with the current workload. It sucked, but at least William always treated him with respect . . . well, for the most part anyway. It took Ronald a few moments to remember just _why _he had come to the boss to begin with . . .

It was hard not to feel anxious. There was every possibility that William would punish Grell severely, maybe demoting him or switching his scythe for something ineffectual, or maybe he would say something hurtful to push Grell over the edge and into suicidality. He had to take that chance though. William was the _only_ one who knew how to deal with Grell, who could motivate him to work and – sometimes – even shake him of his depressive states. Above everything else William was the _boss_. He had a right to know where his staff were and what they were doing. If anything Ronald owed it to _Grell _to tell their superior, at least that way Grell could be brought around to some sanity and get the support he needed.

"I think Grell might have . . . snapped."

Will stood so abruptly that it shook Ronald to his senses.

It was as if something inside William had broke. He seemed so out of sorts all of a sudden! It was as if he didn't know how to act or react to the situation at hand, and that was strange – and creepy – coming from a man who _oozed _control from every pore of his body. The furrowing of his brows suggested frustration, but the long breath that left his body suggested fear . . . it was as if he was trying to purge himself of all the anger and rage inside himself.

Ronald could practically _feel _the irritation, aggravation, and confusion radiate from William as his expression seemed to indicate a desperate yearning to know more, along with a desire to exact punishment on a man that probably – in William's mind – was causing nothing but trouble for very little reason. The older man straightened his tie in a rather mechanical and meticulous gesture, staring ahead with a cold indifference. It was hard to know what he was thinking. Ronald was left feeling confused and conflicted, thinking that if he'd somehow gotten Grell into trouble that he might regret it later, and yet if he _hadn't _said anything then he would have only gotten into trouble with William anyway . . .

"Snapped?" William asked brusquely.

"Yeah," Ronald said, dropping his head with a sigh, "I managed to get everyone out of the Library, but . . ."

"But what?"

Ronald paused as he thought for a long moment. It was hard to explain just what _had _happened . . . he wasn't sure to mention the amount of blood, or the fight that broke out, or the death threats, or even the storm-out . . . he had never seen his colleague so angry before, so close to breaking point. Well, he _had _seen and known him to snap, _everyone _had, but this was so different . . . the blood . . . surely it wasn't all of Grell's blood? That was what scared him most. It wasn't all Grell's blood.

"You'll just have to see for yourself," Ronald said sadly . . .

-/-/-Line Break -/-/-

* * *

This was it.

This was the Shinigami Library . . .

It was perhaps the most impressive building in the entire Shinigami Dispatch Society. It towered over all other buildings and dominated the skyline, its columns and features had endured the ages and stood the test of time, and – no matter where one stood – one could always look upon it and feel that heavy and sombre weight of death. There was no greater reminder of the duties one owed to the souls of the dead, for in there sat the records of all lives and all things . . .

At any other time it stood erect as a monument that symbolised duty, honour, and achievement of the greatest kind. Today it was merely a vacant reminder of the damage one lone Shinigami could do when the reins were let loose . . .

William could not allow himself to feel awed and inspired. Not today. Not when Grell had all but _desecrated _the sanctity of the library, _tainting _it with his high jinks and immaturity, causing it to stand as an empty shell of what it once was, as if he strove to _single-handedly _undermine all that the Shinigami Dispatch Society stood for. If this was where Grell truly was then William had a duty to bring Grell in and deal out appropriate consequences to his insane actions. There was no other option.

The doors to the library swung open so easily that it made the whole action of entering seem misleadingly simple, almost as if there _wasn't _anyone waiting inside for the two men to enter . . . it also released from inside a plethora of sights and smells that William wished to never experience again.

Blood.

It was all that confronted him as he opened the doors to the library. The stale and sense stench almost made him reel back in disgust, and – were it not for Ronald behind him – he may have displayed some signs of that feeling he felt. He was a role model, and – as such – he would suppress any unsightly feelings that he may have. He would endure. It simply did not help that the odour of blood was far from fresh. It was revolting. It was disconcerting. Worst of all, it made the darkness all the more frightening . . .

Blackness. That was all there was, just an overpowering black hue that washed over the library and draped itself over his eyes, dispelling all other colours and shades and banishing them into the dark recesses of the shadows. It was a crippling sensation that left him at a severe disadvantage should combat occur. He didn't know where Grell was, but he did know was that he was alone in the library surrounded by darkness and blood . . .

"Are you sure that Grell Sutcliff is here, Ronald Knox?"

Ronald stepped forward and raised his hand to shield his eyes, the gesture a futile attempt at seeing better in the dark recesses of the library. He seemed to be scanning the area for Grell, but – without entering the library itself and finding a source of light – it would be near impossible to see the redheaded man without aid. In the end he merely sighed and sagged his shoulders.

"He was here just a few moments ago, I swear!"

"But is he here _now_?"

"Well, I can't _guarantee _it, but . . . where else would he go? I mean it's not like some of the others wouldn't have noticed him leaving . . . you get me? Plus I had to evacuate the whole library!"

William allowed a small trace of a frown to mar his features and kicked a stray book that had fallen by the doorway. It seemed as if someone had slashed through a nearby bookcase and caused its contents to fall haphazardly across the entranceway, something that displeased him greatly. The sound of paper scratching against the floor echoed loudly about the empty library. Wherever Grell was hiding he had certainly caused a lot of damage, something that would no doubt come out of their department budget once their superiors knew about it.

"I would hazard a guess that he has since moved on," William uttered.

"Mister Sutcliff? Nah! You didn't see him, sir. He was pretty catatonic at the end of it, when I left him he was just kind of sitting there staring into space, even if he _did _get up and move I don't think he was in his right mind enough to go far."

"And you did not confront him?"

"Last bloke who confronted him got a chainsaw to the face. Do you have any idea how lethal Grell-sempai's death scythe is? I nearly lost an arm getting in the middle of _that _fight. I wouldn't confront Mister Sutcliff in the state he's in even if you offered me a week off from work!"

It was understandable.

Grell was not only a rule-breaker . . . he was a known murderer. Even if one ignored the fact that he had tortured and killed many a woman, he was still highly temperamental and known to instigate arguments and fights for very little reason at all, and – as William knew personally – he was extremely masochistic to the point where he would fight until he was physically unable to fight any more. The only thing that could stop Grell's violent tendencies was the prospect of damaging his face and complexion; anything else was meant nothing to him . . .

No, it was definitely for the best that Ronald did _not _confront Grell, but then . . . was it a much better idea for _William _to confront him? He had certainly not left Grell under the best of circumstances two days ago. His own emotions were conflicted as it was; stuck somewhere between admiring the way that the negligee suited the rather masculine body, and _loathing _the way that his peer had been unable to treat any matter seriously and neglected his duties. He wasn't sure if he liked Grell or hated him, or – worse – _lusted _for him. The only thing that he was certain of was that Grell would certainly _not _want to see him. Grell showed him no respect at the best of times, and after what he had said to the man when at his most vulnerable . . .

"I believe I can deal with things from here. You may return to your paperwork, Mr Knox. I have no doubt that Mr Sutcliff is in here somewhere, but – if by some chance he is _not _– then you are not to confront him under any circumstances, but to fetch me immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal! You don't need to tell me twice!"

"Then you may leave this to me."

William didn't wait for an answer. He walked confidently into the library and allowed the doors to close behind him with a hard bang of noise, one that echoed loudly throughout the building and sent small sounds reverberating back at him . . . it was rather disturbing, however, to hear a small giggle somewhere in the distance, almost as if it came in response to his entering.

It was a high-pitched type of giggle that sounded almost manic in its expression, something dark and dangerous and devilish. He felt drawn to that sound as much as he found himself repelled by it. How like Grell it was to make a sound that could at once express immaturity and maturity all in one, something that angered William to hear and yet compelled him to wander closer. He hated the redheaded man for being so emotional, so selfish as to put a stop to all work for a mere temper tantrum, and yet he admired him for that same passion, he felt drawn to him in a need to somehow solve whatever issue was at the heart of this. He hated himself most of all. He hated himself for giving into Grell and going after him. He had better things to do than this, surely, why was it that he _always _came to Grell's rescue?

He followed the sound to a far corner. It seemed that it was the only area of the library where the windows had been kept open; the curtains open so as to allow light to flow naturally inside, and the whole corner illuminated so that William could see – finally – something quite clearly. The only problem – if one could call it that – was that a long bookcase jutted out from the wall, blocking the very corner itself off from view, hiding the source of the manic laughter . . .

"Grell Sutcliff," William said, rare uncertainty seeping through his tone, "I believe I told you to be on time for work today _and _yesterday. You were absent on both days. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

The giggling ceased at once. William stopped walking towards the now gone sound and paused to listen. The silence was unnerving. He wanted to see Grell, he wanted to know just _what _had caused the evacuation of an entire building, just _what _had compelled Ronald to come to him and beg for help . . . he wanted someone to blame. He knew that he played a role in all of this, that he had pushed Grell to breaking point, but he was not the one to lose all sense of control and act in such a manner. He wanted to see what lay behind that bookcase, what hid itself in the only light in the entire library, he wanted – nay, _needed _– to know what had become of Grell.

William adjusted his glasses and took a step forward carefully. The sound of broken glass underfoot crunched and crackled rather loudly, causing William to curse inwardly the day that he had ever met Grell. He could not even fathom the cost of all the damage done. He had now neared the edge of the bookcase, one step from seeing around its bend and seeing Grell, when the silence suddenly broke . . .

'_London bridge is falling down, falling down . . .'_

That could not be a good sign. Singing was never a good sign, especially not from Grell. The sound was high-pitched, oddly good humoured, but _tinged _with a subtle bitterness that added sharpness to some of the consonants and made the 'r' roll like a purring kitten. It was playful and inviting, yet dangerous and threatening. It was a mass of contradictions and chilled William to his core. When had been the last time that Grell had sung in such a manner? When was the last time that Grell had sung at all? It was eerie. It was surreal. It was Grell all over . . .

'_London bridge is falling down . . . my . . . cruel . . . William.'_

Silence.

William could hear his heart beat wildly beneath his chest, audible only to himself and the only sign of his inner nervousness. The singing had stopped, so had the laughter, and all that was left was William's only deep breaths and the sound of paper fluttering downwards somewhere in the distance. When the paper finally settled somewhere on the ground the sound of the silence changed dramatically.

The silence became a prelude. It was the calm before the storm. It was as if the silence itself was swollen with anticipation, as if it was brewing something deep and dangerous to come that would break the quiet as if it had never existed at all. He just needed to take one step forward and he would see Grell. He would see exactly what the singing man was doing and why he was doing it, and – most of all – he would be able to confront Grell and put a stop to this foolishness. If Grell had not listened to logic before then he certainly would this time around . . .

"Grell Sutcliff."

William stepped forward and turned to his left. What he saw made his blood boil and his otherwise emotionless mask fade away so that his calm façade was broken, leaving his expression instead one of fury, anger and humiliation. The rare emotion caused his stomach to heave, hating himself for having let a man like Grell get one up on him, but he held it in. He held it in as best as he could lest Grell see . . . lest Grell _know _that he had won.

'_I'm half crazy all for the love of you . . .'_

"Cease these foolish games, Grell . . ."

He stormed forward where the still warm, red coat hung against a nail upon the windowsill, along with a bloody handprint upon the windowsill itself that left a horrific and terrifying image upon William's mind. He reached out with a gloved hand and touched the handprint. It smudged. If it was still wet, still fragile, then it was still fresh and freshly made, and if the coat was still warm . . . Grell was playing with him. He was damned well playing with him! Could the red-haired man truly find nothing better to do than to play games like this?

William held the coat by the collar, the material scrunched up in his hands that Grell – in his saner state of mind – would have abhorred. He allowed the coat to drag on the floor as he walked back out into the centre of the library, his eyes darting around in the darkness for some sign of Grell. He couldn't hear anything other than his own pulsing heart, and in the darkness it was like the beating of a drum . . .

"Oh, Will!"

The black-haired Shinigami froze. The voice was coming from behind him. It was so happy, so high in tone, so giddy and giggly and followed by muffled laughter, it was almost as if Grell was back to normal, back to his usual self, back to the self that William could drag back to work by force and demand to sit at his desk . . . but something was wrong. Grell was standing behind William. The light was behind Grell. The shadow being cast clearly showed the outline of a chainsaw-shaped death scythe, one that could easily be turned on at any moment, one that _would _be turned on at any moment . . .

"Haven't you learned anything?" Grell asked. "_Always watch your back_!"

Luckily William's instincts were as sharp as ever.

He threw himself forward in an elegant leap and flung Grell's coat high into the air. The rustling red fabric spun upwards into the air in a magnificent spiral, before finally creating a vibrant crimson screen between the two men that blocked each one from the other's view. It gave William just enough time to spin around and get the coat – and the dangerous redhead behind it – in his sights, and enough of a distraction to evade the dangerous onslaught of that chainsaw.

It was a simple gesture that saved his life. There was no way a man as narcissistic as Grell would sacrifice his favourite article of clothing for a fight, and – as expected – he pulled back his chainsaw and instead spun it around to weave it underneath the falling item, hoping to catch William's legs. The act was in vain, however, as William was already out of reach, forcing Grell to instead grab the coat and throw it down to the ground, leaving his access to his prey free from all obstacles. The sound of the coat was oddly distracting, but William refused to follow its movements. He instead summoned forth his own death scythe and assumed a defensive pose.

The first thing he noticed – as the two men stood facing each other, each one waiting for the other to make the first move – was the horrifying and terrifying expression written upon Grell's face. It was not the face of a sane man. It was also far too much like the expressions he had seen Grell wear when he had adorned himself with the title of 'Jack the Ripper', something surreal and unreal that painted him in the colours of a madman.

He was broken, and William had the horrid suspicion that _he _had been the one to break this man. He had been the one to push Grell past the edge and pushed him over it, and why . . .? Were rules and order really worth one man's sanity? If Grell identified as a woman then how did such a label affect William in the scheme of things, if he was occasionally late for work then -. No. There was no excuse for being perpetually late, or for hurting oneself for attention, or for being so flamboyant, or for a number of things that Grell had done! William had not been too harsh in his words at all; in fact he had every right to be harsh . . .

"Are you honestly acting out because of what I said, Grell Sutcliff?" William said coldly, adjusting his glasses by the bridge with his scythe. "This is pathetic. It is my job and duty to discipline you, it is your duty to listen to my criticisms and adapt your behaviours accordingly . . . instead of doing so you act out like _this_."

"Oh, you always tell me to hone my skills."

Grell stopped the chainsaw's movements so that the blades stood still. The look he gave William was eerie beyond all comprehension, something that was both dangerous and disconcerting, a look that spoke of _lust _and _bloodlust _combined into one. It was as if for Grell pleasure was one with pain. The anger and rage, the fury and passion, all of it was combined into an insane smile that threatened to become a maddened spiel of laughter . . .

William hated it.

He also hated the way that Grell licked a long line up along his chainsaw. It made him shiver for all the wrong reasons, it made him loathe Grell more than what he thought possible . . . the gesture was so sensual that it bordered on erotic, but the blades were so sharp that blood poured from his now cut tongue. It was like a scene from a horror film. Those lips were stained red, his chin dripping with ruby droplets . . .

Grell licked his lips in a mockery of desire.

"What better way of sparring, Will," Grell asked, starting his chainsaw once more, "than to _pierce _the man of my dreams than with the _long_, _hard _steel of my blade? Oh! Oh Will! Won't you sheathe my blade with your blood? _Let me penetrate you_."

"_Enough_, Grell! Is it not enough to cut yourself like a masochistic madman, or to dress like the woman that you most certainly are not? _Now _you are distracting every other Shinigami from their work and duties. Your ridiculous behaviour is disrupting the working lives of others. You are a selfish waste of space."

"Oh, only my Will could be cold as fire and hot as ice! So mean! So cruel!"

The very expression on Grell's face spoke of sheer sadism . . . sadism directed towards William that left him suddenly realising just why his subordinate had been so fearful of this man. If he did not act correctly then he could soon find himself on the end of that chainsaw, ripped into pieces the way that Grell had ripped into so many women. He needed to be careful how he progressed.

Already Grell's face was pulled into a large and strained grin, one that reminded William of the Cheshire Cat in a children's story he had once read, something manic and devastatingly dangerous that hid behind its smile a fountain of pain and death. His sharp, shark-like teeth were bared so that William felt as if they were preparing to rip into his skin at any second, and his green eyes were so wide that there the sheer amount of white was quite overwhelming. His eyebrows were knitted together so that he seemed somewhere between agony and ecstasy, some undefined emotion as he stared straight ahead, chainsaw raised.

Blood covered Grell from head to toe. His hair was so matted with blood that William was sure that locks of it would need to be cut off, and where it had ran down his face it had given him the appearance that he was crying blood. His white work-shirt was cherry red, his brown waistcoat now a deep burgundy, and on his sleeves and shoes was an unidentified greyish substance that only someone like the Undertaker could possibly decipher. Grell had killed again.

"What have you done this time, Sutcliff?"

The man's red glasses were so coated with blood that his vision must have been completely obscured, and yet – like a rare few Shinigami blessed with an abundance of talent – he seemed fully aware of his surroundings and of where exactly William was in relation to him. His gaze was directed at William. His chainsaw, still whirring wildly, was aimed directly at the man's heart.

"Oh, nothing as spectacular as the last," Grell said, then – with a sincere expression of confusion – he placed a finger against his cheek and pouted. "I don't _think _it was as spectacular at least. These women . . ."

"Grell."

"Oh, lighten up, Will!" Grell smiled with his eyes closed and seemed to come somewhat around to his usual state of self, flapping his right hand up and down as if to childishly dismiss his superior. "They deserved every ounce of pain they got! What good is a God of Death if that god can't even deliver some righteous justice onto the world? None of them _deserved _to live, but then none of them _deserved _to die either."

Grell giggled wildly and placed his right hand on his hip. "You know, Will, it isn't fair at all! No matter what I do men always seem to despise me and hate me, they abuse me as if I hadn't any feelings at all! Those women . . . they have men after men after men lining up to be with them . . . they even make a profession out of it! Men want them like they'll never want me. I wouldn't mind if they were strong and passionate and regal as Madame Red, but to turn their beauty into nothing but a bawdy trifle! Ah! It's horrid! If I can't be a woman, then why should they?

"If I were a woman, would you love me? Ah, I try so hard for you to love me, but – alas! – it is never enough . . . even Sebastian hates me . . . why do men despise me so? I've painted those women red just for you! You should see them, Will! There's no way that you can deny I look prettier in red now! Not when their hearts are _breaking _at the sight of you, their insides _pouring _out!"

Grell smiled and lifted his chainsaw to rest on his shoulder. His gloved hand twitched dangerously, causing the motor of the saw to occasionally let loose a low rumble as if it were trying to start up. If he were prepping for an attack then William would have to stay strong and alert. The raven-haired man lowered his staff to his side and held tight, ready to use it for defence or attack should the need arise . . .

The redheaded demon saw the apprehension on William's features and lowered his gaze ever so slightly, casting his face into darkness and making the light illuminate his white teeth. He stepped forward slowly and casually, his confidence beaming through his blood-soaked clothing. The way his high-heels clicked against the floor as he walked disturbed William. The sound was strangely calm and rhythmic as he walked, nothing alike the dangerous smile on his lips or the eerie atmosphere in the air, and when he was a mere few feet from William he stopped. He revved his chainsaw and pointed it directly at William in a threatening manner.

"Look at you, Will! All dressed in black . . . how handsome and elegant you look! I can just imagine you with a beautiful woman in a full-length gown, someone who can carry your child and bear your young . . . she would never be clad in red like me . . ."

Will walked backwards, keeping Grell in sight as the other man advanced on him in a slow and steady manner. They seemed to be walking in synchronisation, each man walking at the exact same pace as the other, almost as if a reverse mirror image . . . usually William never backed away from an opponent, but he knew that he had to keep Grell in his sights. If he stayed still he would lose track of Grell and that would leave him at a distinct disadvantage. He needed to keep an eye on him. He needed to watch him. It was a matter of life and death.

"You are beautiful in black. I'm ravishing in red!" Grell said, his smile twitching in pleasure as he saw William suddenly backed against a wall. "I wonder why it is that you hate me so much . . . my darling Sebas-chan says that black always consumes red, that it destroys the colour red completely! Why won't you consume me, use me . . . _take _me? Or are we truly incompatible? I guess there's only one question left!"

William stood his ground. He lifted his scythe across his body and used it as a shield, prepared to block any attack, but also prepared to attack should the need inevitably arise. The only thought that crossed his mind was 'not the face', because – if Grell ever snapped back to normal – the _last _thing he wanted was a melodramatic drama queen weeping over his desk about a facial scar.

"What is the question, Grell Sutcliff?" William asked.

"Easy," Grell said a little too calmly . . . "Which shall win? _Red or black_?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

William barely had time to react before the chainsaw came down . . .

He spun around full circle to his left, his back hitting the wall again so hard that – along with the force of the spin – it left him somewhat winded and disorientated. It wasn't just the sudden movement that had stunned him, but also the sudden shock of having come so close to death . . . he hadn't just stared Death in the face, he had just witnessed the possibility of his _own _demise. He could have died. He _would _have died.

Grell had tried to _kill_ him . . .

The metallic whirring of that infernal contraption nearly deafened him as he flattened himself against the wall behind him. It was a shrill sound that stole his senses and would have caused a lesser man to flinch, but he would not flinch, least not in front of Grell who was only _looking _for an excuse to inflict more pain – _more _damage – on those around him. The saw had already ripped a dark path downwards so that the wall itself seemed cleaved in two, cleft atwain by the penetrative force of the saw's blades. William's glasses protected him from the worst of it, but they could only do so much, so that – in the end – he was blinded momentarily by the dust and particles of brick.

He had moved just in time. If he were to judge from the rift now in the wall – a rift only an _inch _from his slightly frayed right sleeve – he would have been torn in half himself had he not moved. It was a terrifying realisation, but he had no time to ponder its implications. Grell had already wrenched his blade from the wall and seemed intent to use it once more against William.

The wall exploded into a cloud of dust. The sound of plaster cracking and bricks breaking sounded far worse than the damage that was actually done, but the particles in the air caused both men to cough and choke for a brief second, forcing them to back away from the ash cloud. William dove between two bookcases out of sight. He could hear from the heavy footsteps and sounds of choking that Grell had moved into the opposite direction, stepping somewhere into the centre of the library into an open space. He hoped that by catching his breath it would give them both a chance to strategise quickly and reconsider their options, meaning that – with some luck – he could catch Grell off guard and force him into submission.

"Do you always try to kill the men that you claim to love?" William snapped.

He adjusted his glasses using his death scythe and tried to focus his eyes on his surroundings. The cloud was settling, but without wiping his glasses down it was hard to tell for sure. Grell had already done so much damage to the library as it was, but this was just far too much . . . the last straw . . . he could dock Grell's wages for an entire _year _and still half the damage would be left uncovered.

"Oh, _nothing_ is more romantic than dying for love! Don't you agree, Will?"

"No, I do not."

The black-haired man lifted a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lenses. He dared not remove them lest Grell suddenly issue forth an attack in the meantime, but he knew that the other man would have been consumed by the need to likewise clean his own spectacles. Knowing Grell as he did he also knew that the redheaded man would even stoop so low as to retrieve his coat or adjust something on his scythe. It meant that William had a few moments to spare without risking any real danger. He could thank Grell's predictable fighting style for _that_.

He threw his handkerchief to the floor and stepped back out into the open space of – what was now effectively – their arena, his eyes scanning for Grell rapidly as he sought the redheaded man's presence. It was so impossibly dark in the rest of the library that he knew he could no longer rely on just sight. He would have to rely on his other senses, and – judging from where Grell's voice had come from – he could estimate that the other man was hiding only some feet away in the centre of a large open space. In fact – if he strained his eyesight enough – he could just about make out the sight of a dark, black figure standing alone, pulling on what looked to be a rather long coat. He struggled due to the fact he refused to put down his scythe.

"Ah, you have no sense of romance!" Grell protested loudly. "What can be better than _Romeo and Juliet_, or Ophelia's love for Hamlet, or Desdemona's love for Othello! To die in the arms of your lover! To die for love! It's so pure, so untainted, and so full of _passion_! The final act cast down on two lovers forever and eternally entwined . . . ah, it's _to die for_!"

"I resent that you would kill me for some mere delusion."

"Oh, Will! I could never _kill _you," Grell chirped cheerful, seemingly waving him off in the distance. "Maim you, maybe, but kill . . . never! Oh, but that is a lie, isn't it? I _could _kill you. There are – after all – those _little deaths _that men _crave _the taste of so _very _much. Would you like that, Will? Would you like me to build you up to frenzy in this battle between two, push you to the very brink, then send you tumbling over into your personal, little . . . _death_?"

William's grip upon his death scythe tightened so much that the leather of his gloves squeaked and his hand physically began to ache. The pain shot through his digits and up into his arm until he realised that he was fighting to hold back, the sheer restraint in his refusal to attack _literally _making him ache with fury, and as he looked deep into the darkness he felt a pair of eyes looking back. The abyss was looking back at him, consuming him, and he _hated _that feeling.

How was it that Grell could bring out in him such rage? The very sight of that man lost in the darkness, lost in his own insanity, caused him to want to do such damage that would make this seem trivial in comparison. He wanted Grell to understand the error of his ways. He wanted the redheaded man to apologise and to change. He wanted to hurt him, hate him, and make him suffer . . . but – most of all – he simply wanted _Grell_. He couldn't help but admire the man's passion and courage, he couldn't help but want to ease those wounds and cure those ills, and – above all – he wanted to see that body stained red in that revealing negligee once more. The adrenaline of the battle coursed through him in such a way that he both hated Grell and needed him. He couldn't understand it. He _hated _Grell, so why – _why _– did he _need _him?

It was childish to hate another man for his own feelings of confusion and conflict, but whenever he heard that _teasing _and _flirtatious _tone he couldn't help but feel as if Grell _were _mocking him, taunting him, tantalising him with all the things that he wanted and could never have . . . baiting him with all the things he hated but could never destroy . . . he hated him for it. He hated Grell for those bold clothes, for those feminine movements, for the constant rule breaking . . . he _hated _him.

William raised his death scythe – out of sheer instinct – and let it extend.

It seemed that this time it was _his _turn to take Grell by surprise. He looked away to adjust his glasses with his spare hand, letting his scythe run until it just scraped past the longhaired Shinigami, and then allowed himself to relish in the sounds that followed. Grell screamed loudly and appeared to step to one side, cursing William over and over in every language and curse word he knew, before throwing a book in William's direction as the scythe retracted.

"You –! You brute!" Grell shouted over. "You nearly scratched my face and I'm sure I've lost a lock of hair! How could you do this to a lady? I don't mind if you want to slide that _long shaft_ of yours inside me, just as long as you don't _stain_ my face!"

"Cease this infernal behaviour, Grell Sutcliff, or I shall make you cease."

"_Make_ _me_!" Grell shouted across stubbornly, stamping his heeled foot. "I would _love_ to see you try! My, you could _barely _beat me when we were in the Academy, do you really think that -? Huh. W-Will? Ah -! W-where did you go?"

Grell bent forward slightly as he raised his hand over his eyes almost as if to shield them in the dark, a gesture – he would later realise – was far too similar to Ronald for his own liking. It was as if incompetence was contagious! Not that Grell had anything against Ronald at all, but only _Ronald_ would shield his eyes when there was no actual need to . . . well, aside from Grell it seemed.

He couldn't see Will anywhere. It was true that it was dark, but William hadn't even waited for him to finish his sentence before darting off something in the shadows out of sight! Usually William only darted away when he planned to attack, always on the offensive and preferring speed to stealth, but for some reason he was hiding completely from Grell's sight . . . the black clothes only helped him to camouflage in the shade. It was the first time that Grell regretted his flamboyant choice in attire. He was like a walking target for William!

It was then that William made his move . . .

"Ah! No! _Stop_!"

Grell raised his chainsaw high to block Will's oncoming attack. The force of the rod was so hard that it knocked him back a few steps, forcing him to put all of his strength into his scythe in order to hold his ground. He winced a little and screwed up his face in disgust, the blood drying so much that his clothes were stiff to move and limited his movements. It was difficult to position himself right, but he needed to in order to fend off Will's attacks.

"W-Will!"

It took a huge force of effort, but – after a few moments – he had managed to force William away and regain his footing. The raven-haired man jumped several feet back and took up a fighting pose. They were so close that one reach with their respective scythes would easily cut into the other's flesh, but neither one seemed prepared to move and make that first cut.

Grell had been taken by surprise by the fact that William seemed prepared to attack, and William seemed slow to believe that Grell wouldn't be quick to return the favour. Both men were tired out by their previous dance of death; each one locked in combat and focussed solely upon their movements and actions, each one fending off the other as they strove to win their personal battle. They stood out of breath. It was normal, but William hated how 'normal' it was. He hated that he could see the flushed nature to Grell's cheeks, hated that he could hear the little pants of breath, and – most of all – hated the way his chest moved up and down in a heavy and hard rhythm. How was it that the heat of battle could so resemble the heat of passion?

"I do believe you are something of a bad influence," William said as if to himself, adjusting his glasses by the point of his scythe. "I will give you _one _chance to surrender, Grell Sutcliff. Will you quit this immature match and return to work like a reasonable adult, or must I beat you into submission?"

"Oh, you are so mean to even _tease _about beating a lady!"

Grell turned at an angle so that he was almost profile in William's vision. The redheaded man used a free hand to waft some of his long locks of hair out of his way, allowing them to gently trail and flow down his back like sheets of satin. He batted his eyelids in a rather seductive manner, so much so that William felt something warm like lust stir in his stomach and burning like bile in his throat, and – as Grell touched his breast with long and gentle fingers – William could see a soft smile on the man's lips play across his face.

"It's so mean!" Grell's singsong voice was so melodic that it almost mocked the seriousness of the situation. "Especially when you know I'd _willingly _submit to you. There is a certain _hole _in my life that only your _long rod _can fill, and – ah! Stop, stop, _stop_!"

William began an onslaught of attacks almost at once. This time it would be Grell forced with his back against a wall, unable to do nought but defend against a powerful barrage that he stood no chance of retaliating against. William's attacks were fast and relentless. He slashed and stabbed at even the slightest of chances and the smallest of openings, leaving Grell unable to predict the next move and forcing him to react on sheer instinct, but – despite it all – only one or two of his attacks seemed to break through, leaving William more and more frustrated.

Eventually the blows seemed to come to an end. Grell was forced against a far wall in a dark corner of the library; only a thin stream of light coming from a slightly open curtain illuminated his features, and in that small slither of light William could see the shock and horror written upon Grell's features. His green eyes were wide in what could only be described as fear, his mouth wide open in shock . . .

Upon contact with the wall Grell had let out a loud exhale of breath, winded by the impact, but now he was silenced by Will's long scythe pressed horizontally across his throat. He appeared to be struggling to breathe. His red-painted nails dropped his chainsaw in order to claw at the long rod that silenced his breathing, and as he stared at William he realised that he would be receiving no sympathy. It brought into William's mind the dozens of times that he had saved the redheaded man's life, even during the fight with the demon, and the dozens of times that such a rescue had followed with a physical assault upon Grell. He could not allow himself to go easy on this man. He hated him, he hated him and he had him – _for once _– right under his grasp, under his _control_, finally learning his lesson . . .

"W-wait, Will! Wait!"

"You are _single-handedly _the biggest burden in my life," William said, pushing harder against Grell's throat as he leant into his personal space. "You are _perpetually _late for work, you break nearly _every_ rule on the list, and you _force _me to save you from that _vermin _Sebastian Michaelis. You are confused about your identity, you make _every thing _into an innuendo, and I have had no greater trouble from _any _other employee in my division."

"N-no, you have it wrong! Ah, not the face! _Please_! I just –"

Grell was silenced rather abruptly . . .

It took him several long seconds to comprehend what had happened. His eyes wide as the pressure against his throat relaxed considerably, the death scythe now lowered and vertical as Will used it as one would a walking stick, and yet there was substantial pain. The cold Shinigami had entwined his fingers in Grell's hair and had pulled back his head so that he felt as if his hair would be pulled from the root, and – as Grell opened his mouth to protest – something _really _stopped him from talking.

Will . . . Will was _kissing _him.

It was so unexpected that Grell couldn't even bring himself to react or respond. It must have been like kissing a corpse . . . albeit one still warm with the blood of others and one that even _tasted _of blood. He couldn't help but notice how soft Will's lips were, or how strangely passionate the kiss was, something that seemed so out of character to Grell! He couldn't remember Will _ever _showing an ounce of emotion, let alone sheer _passion_, and now here he was _kissing _Grell as if his very life depended upon it! He didn't understand it at all. He felt an excruciating pain from where he had cut his tongue and from where Will insisted upon playing with it, and the taste of blood was far from romantic in the least! Will . . . Will _hated _him. He hated him! Why would he kiss him?

Grell found his hands were conveniently still where the scythe had been, leaving them now pressed hard against William's chest. He was caught between instinctively wanting to hold onto the man and using his reason to push him far, far away. This was the moment he had always dreamt of! He had always wanted male attention, especially William's, and yet -!

"Stop!"

He gave a large shove and pushed William away using all of his strength. The black-haired Shinigami stumbled backwards and found himself grateful for the structure of his scythe, he used it to find his balance and right himself back to a state of dignity and poise. The silence in the library was eerily still, only broken by the occasional sound of rustling paper and people talking agitatedly outside. William found himself somewhat brought to his senses as a breeze stirred. He was supposed to be bringing Grell around, getting back to work . . .

"H-hold on!" Grell stuttered, flapping his hands wildly about his face. "You – you hate me! I just tried to hurt you with my death scythe, and you – you -! You can't kiss me like this . . ."

William gave Grell a hard stare.

The redheaded Shinigami was blushing profusely, that much was clear even in the near darkness, and he even clasped his hands together as if in prayer. The way he spun side to side gave him a rather manic edge, making him seem somewhat more insane than usual, and the way he appeared to frown was _certainly _not what William had expected. He had assumed – given how _flirtatious _Grell could be – that the rather flamboyant man would be quite grateful for his attentions, but somehow it seemed that was not the case. He suddenly felt rather affronted.

"You'll smudge my lipstick!"

"You can not be serious, Grell Sutcliff."

"How dare you!" Grell pointed wildly in William's direction with a frown. "You have no right to kiss a lady without her permission! You _hate _me! My, even my Sebas-chan isn't cruel enough to play with a lady's emotions like that!"

William adjusted his glasses and gave Grell a dark stare. He waited for a brief moment for Grell to seemingly compose himself, but the redheaded man continued to squirm and complain and rant aloud to himself. In the darkness and dust he was barely recognisable, even his red hair had been matted with blood and dirt to the point that his usual style was almost gone entirely, and now – to see him so visibly upset – it caused William to feel a frustration unlike any other. He wanted nothing more than to strike Grell and force him into silence, but it seemed like the worst possible action at a time like this. It would only cause Grell to grow more agitated.

"I do not hate you, Grell." William paused and then added: "At least not completely."

"W-Will?"

The black-haired Shinigami reacted on sheer instinct. In one quick movement he kicked Grell hard in his chest and knocked him backwards hard against the wall once more, causing him to cry out in distress. Plaster crumbled slightly under the pressure and somewhere outside William could hear other Shinigami talking in raised voices, reminding him that this building would soon be needed for his colleagues to complete their jobs to satisfactory levels.

The redhead squinted through his glasses to look at Will in pure confusion. His hands became clenched fists, brought upwards so as to cover his mouth and hide his chest from sight, his back slightly hunched as if he were attempting to hide in himself. It was such a defensive and uncertain gesture that it took William back to all those times that they had fought and where Grell had been beaten into subservience. His good behaviour never lasted long, but it always began with the soft and almost meek gestures that were so out of character for the Shinigami. It brought out feelings in William that he would much rather ignore. He wanted to hurt Grell for being so weak and protect him at the same time, and as he watched Grell blink away what may easily have been tears he found himself sighing in frustration.

He stepped forward and pressed his lips to Grell's in a soft and rather sincere gesture. Their lips remained closed, the moment brief and fleeting, but it was far more intimate than any other kiss they had shared or could possibly share. He could feel Grell's breath seep through, he could hear the slight gasp that escape him, and he could – most of all – feel the appreciation and sheer relief coursing through Grell's body as the other man finally let all of his tension and anger go.

When they parted William was sure he could see Grell smile a warm and genuine smile that was so rare upon him, something that made his eyes glow with promise and hope, and something that almost made his previous rage dissipate from William's memory entirely. The murderous Shinigami looked almost sweet.

"My, to think that was my first kiss with a man!"

William's eyebrow twitched.

It was entirely possible that he had misheard or misunderstood, but William prided himself on being precise and capable as both Shinigami and as a man. He was the type of man to not make mistakes. He paid attention the first time around, he listened intently, and – as such – he knew that what he had heard escape Grell's lips could be nothing but was said. If there was any strangeness about those words it could only be that they were untrue, not – as William thought for one long moment – simply because he had misheard. Grell had to be lying.

"Pardon, Grell Sutcliff?"

The library suddenly felt all the darker. He could see particles of dust in the air drifting upwards so that they seemed to sparkle in the light, like sunlight catching the pure drifts of snow on an early morning. It was almost beautiful in a way to see something created out of all of the destruction, something fleeting and ethereal that was borne by Grell's own rage and fury, and – for a split second – the sun caught William's glasses just right and he caught sight of a wide spectrum of colours reflected against the backdrop of the falling dust fragments.

Grell pressed both hands flat against his bloodstained cheeks, turning from side to side in a love-struck daze. His eyes were half-lidded with fake-eyelashes flickering up and down wildly like the wings of a butterfly, and – caught in the dust and decay – they themselves appeared to shine and radiate in the darkness. There was a natural blush to his cheeks, an almost coyness to his gestures, and he seemed unwilling to make direct eye contact with William or face him directly. It would have been somewhat endearing on any other creature, but on Grell . . . it made William wish to strike him again. He could not understand why Grell would act so weak, so submissive, and so _feminine _when he was renowned for being strong and full of passion. He would never understand Grell. He would never understand the strange act the man put on either, almost as if he thought playing the shy virgin would make him more sexually appealing, despite obvious evidence to the contrary.

"You sound shocked, Will."

Grell smiled at William and ran a hand through his long locks. His hair caught roughly in the places where it was too matted with blood to move, but in others his long fingers in the little and soft light gave it an interesting shimmer. The sound of hair rustling against gloved fingers sounded strangely soft in such a rough and broken place, it almost made Grell seem oddly innocent standing in the midst of his own obvious rampage.

"My, as much I would have loved to have saved myself just for you," Grell continued, blowing a kiss at William that made the raven-haired man visibly flinch with disgust, "I simply _couldn't_. Ah, I dreamt every night since our passionate dance, my body pressed against yours, the heat of passion as we moved as one -! Oh, wasn't it perfect? Do you know what I dreamed? I always dreamt of you as breathless as that day, bathed in blood beside me as we fought our own one-on-one battle! Do know you know why I didn't act on those dreams, my darling _Will . . . i _. . . _am_!"

"Because, even though you wish to become a woman, you do not wish to be castrated in your sleep by the sharp end of my death scythe?"

"Oh, _Will_! You're such a joker!"

The redheaded Shinigami let loose a rather eerie grin, before placing a long finger along his jawbone and resting his elbow on his other arm, now hugging his abdomen. He gave William such a strong and calculating gaze that the other man felt as if he was being mentally dissected, as if the crazed man before him was weighing up how much force would be needed to see that precious red he loved so much . . .

Grell sighed and bent downwards to retrieve his death scythe. It seemed that he no longer feared William or any potential attacks; any Shinigami worth his salt would _certainly _not leave himself exposed in such a position were he to seriously think that he would be harmed, and Grell was no newbie when it came to battle. The fact he could treat William as if he were no threat offended the other Shinigami to heights he hadn't before thought possible. He resented that Grell could consider him so lowly. The redheaded man didn't even seem to care enough to keep William in his sights, his hair becoming a thick curtain separating between the two as he reached downwards.

"You know as well as I do that any acts between men are illegal in London," Grell said in a melodic and high-pitched voice as he lifted his scythe with his little finger. "I suppose there's nothing to stop me from being with you or my darling Sebas-chan, but – alas! – the men I love seem to care nothing for me! If love hurts then I'm black-and-blue all over! Love is so _rough_ . . . I don't mind a little _bruising_, but being beaten to the point of _death _isn't what I have in mind when it comes to burning passion!"

"You are suggesting that you can not kiss living men as it is illegal," William said, watching Grell swing his scythe on his finger as if he were merely dangling a ring of keys and nothing more. "You also suggest that the filthy demons and worthy Shinigami around you will not kiss you, being as that they have more sense than to risk communicable disease by touching your lips."

"Oh! How can you be so _cold_ even when surrounded by the _fiery flames_ of passion?"

William drew in a deep breath to calm himself. His chest extended just ever so slightly from beneath his black waistcoat, and as he lowered his head to keep Grell in his line of sight his glasses took on a bright shine that hid his eyes entirely. His hand twitched just slightly so that the light caught his scythe just right, casting a small beam of light onto Grell and highlighting the scythe's presence by his side. The sudden calm between them was disconcerting indeed. Grell appeared to notice and stood silent, blinking rapidly in confusion, eyebrows furrowed as he watched William intently and curiously . . .

"Will?"

Grell's eyes suddenly widened as William's death scythe suddenly came upwards and pointed directly for his throat. The movement was so fast that Grell had no chance at deflecting the attack, instead he could only throw his head back and try not to let the sharp end of the blade get too close to his neck. Luckily William stopped before any real damage could be done, but he could feel the sharp point digging into his flesh and pricking him so that a small bubble of blood came to the surface.

"W-Will!"

"I was your first kiss?"

"W-well," Grell said backing up against the wall, despite the fact that William followed his movements and kept his scythe at his throat, "you were just my first kiss with a _man_. I wasn't lying when I said that I loved Madame Red! You know that love knows no bounds! Why should I discriminate against my lovers over something as trivial as what body they were born into? As a _lady_ it would be hypocritical of –"

"Enough."

William let down his scythe and instead grabbed Grell firmly by his hair. The redheaded Shinigami at once began to protest heavily, the words 'split ends' coming out on more than one occasion as he cried out in pain, but William ignored him. He purposely dragged Grell through the library towards the main doors, focussing on nothing else but getting the troublemaker back outside into the light of day and back into the office. He had every intention of making Grell work the overtime he owed, clear up his mess, _and _do his due paperwork . . . whether it killed Grell or not.

The dust had finally settled, leaving a fine layer of sparkling debris across the floors and shelving. It was oddly pure and soothing, like the first sprinkling of untouched snow on a winter's day, and underneath his feet the wreckage crackled and crunched as he walked so that the sounds seemed to compete with Grell's constant whining. The redhead struggled to keep up with his head forced completely down, so that he was effectively watching the floor as he walked, he also struggled to match William's pace as the other man walked rapidly and brusquely. His left hand hung limply at his side, his death scythe dragging along the floor in a rather inelegant manner, whilst his right hand grasped at William's wrist in an attempt to stop him from pulling cruelly at his hair. Eventually they found their way into the main foyer by the doors. It was then – and only then – that William let go of Grell.

Grell let out a loud – albeit high-pitched – cry of relief . . . one that was short-lived as William struck him hard across the face, sending him flying backwards and crashing hard against the floor. He rolled several times, the edges of his death scythe cutting into his abdomen as he landed roughly upon it. It was only when he struggled to stand that he noticed that William had opened the doors to the library wide open, casting inside a blinding and burning light that hurt his eyes and made him curse having cast the library into such darkness during his rage.

"Will, I can –"

"Shut up, Grell Sutcliff," William said, casting a cold glare at his subordinate. "I will make you an offer. If you arrive at work every day on time, do the required overtime, _fix _this _ridiculous _mess, and do that _infernal _pile of paperwork on your desk . . . shall we say . . . by seven days time? Then I shall take you on one 'romantic' date of your choosing. I cannot say the thought doesn't entirely sicken me, but I am not _entirely _averse to it either. I may even kiss you again. Does that suit you?"

"Oh, Will! You _do _love me!"

Grell smiled wildly as he clasped his hands together as if in utter gratitude, but after a few seconds of bearing his white teeth and fluttering his eyelids he seemed to forget himself entirely. He left his scythe on the floor. He forgot just how unromantic his surroundings were. His only concern was Will and expressing his love for the man before him, and so he spread open his arms wide and open and ran to embrace William, expecting for some sincere return of emotion.

William sidestepped at the last minute so that Grell crashed hard onto the floor, his leap of faith failing him completely . . . to rub salt into the wound William kicked the man hard in the face and glared at him darkly through his glasses. The only sounds were – once more – cries of pain and agony . . .

"I believe a hug is what they call 'romantic'," William spat in fury. "The romance is conditional upon our date, which is in turn conditional upon your ability to work to the fullest in the next week. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Will . . ."

William adjusted his glasses and tried his best not to smile. It was difficult not to feel _some _sense of enjoyment – whether from his sadistic needs being met or a genuine care for Grell – at seeing the man on the floor bleeding and smiling manically. His eyes were wide in excitement and desire, his red coat spread about him like a puddle of blood, and his dishevelled state was both satisfying and somewhat _tempting_ . . . not that William would ever admit to such a thing.

"Good," he said coldly. "Now get back to work."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** This is the final chapter. Huge thanks to Nathalaia for her constructive feedback and lovely comments, and to Sammi for having put up with my rants and helping to motivate me to finish.

**Chapter Five**

Grell sighed as he rung the water out from his long hair . . .

Honestly, how could Will be so _cruel_? It was one thing for that brute of an undertaker to slash the skin upon his face, it was one thing for his darling Sebas-chan to get involved in their private fights and nearly hurt poor Ronald, but what reason did _Will _have to beat them senseless? If that cold-hearted man disliked the fact that they had left a job half-finished, then . . . well . . . then he shouldn't have sent just two – a mere _two _– Shinigami to complete it!

How did anyone expect Grell to reap over a thousand souls practically on his own? Oh, Ronald was good at his job and a great help, but he was still so _young ._ . . but to go up against a 'violator' and a demon in one battle -! Ah, if only Will hadn't been so cold as to ignore their protests, he might just have understood that there were extenuating circumstances! Did he even _care_ that Grell was facedown in the water? Did he even care that Grell had nearly died? It was like they weren't dating at all! He had sidestepped Grell when the redheaded man tried to embrace him, hit him continuously along with Ronald before that . . .

The redheaded Shinigami looked at the hair in his hands darkly. It would take ages to dry, and no doubt he had lost a few locks in the battle against Undertaker and Sebastian, and that wasn't to mention the split-ends and the parts matted together with blood that would most likely have to be cut out. The things he sacrificed for work! How could William accuse him of being a slacker?

Grell harrumphed loudly and flicked his hair back over his shoulder.

"Hey!"

Grell blinked a few times in surprise that someone would call out to him so gruffly, then turned his head to innocently look over his shoulder. His glasses were a little steamed from the heat of the offices and there was still a layer of water over them to distort his vision, but – as he pouted and frowned just a little – it wasn't enough to hide from him the sight of his co-worker standing directly behind him. He couldn't help but feel slightly put out by the sight of Ronald, but at the same time he would _much _rather see the blond boy than William!

Ronald stood equally as wet and drenched to the skin with water. His blond eyebrow twitched up and down just slightly enough to make his irritation known, his green eyes narrowed just enough to make him appear annoyed without being too insolent or angry in expression, and his mouth was pulled into something of a pained smile. He stood awkwardly, the water-soaked clothes making movement difficult, and because he appeared to hunch his back in defeat he seemed all the shorter for it and all the younger, too. The only . . . _odd _. . . thing was that he appeared to have a line of vibrant and vivid red across his shoulder in a long slither, and the source of that scarlet streak seemed to be coming straight from Grell's head . . .

"Please, Sutcliff-sempai," Ronald said bitterly, peeling the wet locks of hair from his shoulder with a rather tense expression, "watch where you throw your hair. It's too long to just throw back without looking where you're throwing it."

"Well you shouldn't stand so close to a lady! It's not proper."

"Well, just so you know, your ladyship's got a piece of seaweed still stuck to her head," Ronald replied with a smile.

Ronald winked at his elder and gave him a childish salute, before walking into the centre of the office and collapsing into a revolving chair. He straddled the chair with his legs and leant forward onto its back, he rested his head into his folded arms as he gave Grell a strange look, almost as if he found the whole situation amusing. The annoyance was clear. Grell could see it seething from that bruised body and ego, but – at the same time – he still seemed rather amused . . .

"Think we can claim on the overtime?"

Grell scowled as he searched his desk for a hand mirror, "I very much doubt it."

The redheaded Shinigami eventually found what he was looking for and let out a squeal of delight, clasping the compact mirror like a lifeline. It was almost adorable how he embraced the mirror, holding it against his heart in both hands as he swung from side-to-side, a smile on his face much like whenever he saw a 'handsome' man lurking in his sights. Ronald had never seen someone so excited at the sight of a mirror before, but then Grell was probably more appearance orientated than most women. There could be nothing worse to Grell than being submerged in water.

Grell threw himself into a nearby chair and used the mirror to pick up the piece of seaweed carefully between his index finger and thumb, his face screwed up in disgust as he threw it to one side . . . letting it land on what used to be Eric's desk. It would have been disrespectful from anyone else, but seeing as Mister Sutcliff was the type to throw things around at the best of times . . .

"What," Ronald said, spinning in circles, peeling off his wet gloves, "no innuendoes today? You were so lively earlier, Sempai! Why so down all of a sudden? It's not like you at all. In fact it's kind of creepy actually."

The older man really did look beyond sorrowful.

He had placed the mirror upon the table before him and seemed to be busy removing his smudged make-up and skewed fake-eyelashes. It was necessary – in retrospect – to have to remove all his make-up in order to reapply it, but Grell always got so angry when people looked at him with a bare-face, it made Ronald want to look away out of fear. The problem was that it was so hard to look away when Grell looked so down in the dumps. It was like a train wreck . . . terrifying and yet compelling.

"I've been far too well behaved lately," Grell said sadly, adjusting his mirror. "You know I went all alone to the Phantomhive Manor and took so many souls, all without complaint, and it wasn't as easy as _you _made out! Then today I _ruin _my make-up trying to get information on the Undertaker and reaping all of those souls! It's not fair! What's the point in being – ah! What are you doing? _Don't look at me without my make-up_!"

Ronald flinched as a hair straighter flew past his head, narrowly missing him by a mere inch. He only smiled as he swung his chair around and faced a wall instead of his elder, knowing that Grell was actually being _far _more mature than usual, because – scarily enough – the _last _person to try and glimpse Grell without his make-up had ended up with a broken nose. In all honesty it wasn't the bare face that intrigued Ronald, it was the emotions painted upon it . . .

The redhead was still dripping water all over the floor, rivulets of water running from his hair and collar and dripping over his face and chest, giving him the eerie appearance of a man drowning in dry air. His hair had lost all its volume and shine, lying limp over him in thick and moist tendrils, and his shoulders had fallen so that he looked as lifeless and broken as a puppet with its strings cut. It was heartbreaking to see. His eyebrows were upturned and knitted in the middle, his eyes expressing an element of confusion and hope as if somehow – against all logic – despite his pain and anger _somehow _everything could be made better.

It was the same look that Grell had worn when he had pulled himself out of the water and onto the boat, a look that spoke of betrayal and - . . . ah. That was it, wasn't it? Grell had always been so into William, even going so far as to describe him as his 'true love' on many an occasion, and when William had agreed to start going on dates with Grell in return for Grell's good behaviour at work . . . Grell had poured his heart and soul into the relationship.

He still flirted with other men, he still joked and teased others relentlessly, but he still _loved _William and he still thought of the relationship as something serious and meaningful. Ronald didn't understand what was going on at all. When he dated he always showed the girls he was with the utmost respect and kindness, but it seemed different for Mister Spears. He never flirted with Grell, never smiled, never held him when he cried or sat with him patiently when he ranted, he always treated him like a chore, a nuisance, like he didn't even matter . . . it was no wonder that Grell was so out of sorts! He had actually behaved, hadn't let himself get _too _distracted by Sebastian – even leaving Sebastian when the situation called for it – and he was still being treated so coldly! It had to hurt.

"Sorry, Sutcliff-sempai."

"Ah, I just don't understand how my darling Will could be so mean!" Grell said with a dark pout, reapplying his fake eyelashes with a terrifying precision. "There I was lying so prone and vulnerable, so _wet _and _waiting_, and he doesn't even make a pass!"

"Well, _technically _he made several passes . . . they were just aimed at your head, that's all."

Ronald barely reacted as Grell screamed loudly in frustration. He swirled in his chair indifferently, letting the tube of lipstick miss his head by a mere inch as he spun back around in his original position. He heard the tube hit the back wall cruelly and it tempted him just enough to spin a second time and see the damage done, sending droplets of water flying over his desk and what remained of Alan's desk. A large red smear dragged its way down the wall where the lipstick had come out of its tube. It was a pretty impressive mark actually, but William wouldn't be pleased at all.

"Come to think of it," Ronald said quietly, making sure not to make eye-contact with Grell as he decided to goad him further, "you always say love hurts, don't you Sutcliff-sempai? Guess this means that Mister Spears loves you after all, huh?"

"Shut up! Why do I always get paired with such a brat?"

"Brat? Hey, our bosses are total slave drivers. I've worked my arse off considering, and I've done all that overtime for no thanks whatsoever . . . besides, you were the one tormenting me earlier with all those antics on the ship. I'm not a brat! Anyway, even if I am I'm still young! You've got to make exceptions for me, I'm at that rowdy age where I just want to play and have fun."

"I don't see why I should make an exception for your age when no one makes exceptions for my gender," Grell said quite seriously. "Anyway, you shouldn't complain about overtime. Paperwork and reports are just as much an important job as soul-reaping and reconnaissance!"

"You always say these things with such a straight face . . ."

It might have actually been easier to believe Grell if the redheaded man hadn't been suspended only recently or was infamous for missing deadlines, and – considering he was now lining his lips with a lip-pencil – Ronald got the impression that his senior wasn't _too _serious about working himself. Grell's make-up bag, stashed into a desk drawer, was larger than any actual make-up artist's. It was hard to believe that a man that was now trading the pencil for a tube of lipstick could be the same man standing head-to-head against a demon and a rogue Shinigami . . .

Ronald didn't mind working when the situation called for it, but couldn't their superiors give him a break just once? They were understaffed, but that didn't give Mister Spears a right to work them to the bone or to demand that they write reports when they should be drying off, and now Ronald was stuck in an office with a despondent and irritated redhead who occasionally muttered rather rude comments about their boss. Even Shinigami needed sleep.

"Hey, Sempai!" The blond boy furrowed his eyebrows and let out a loud yawn. "You just put lipstick on, what's the point in putting gloss on top? You can't even see it anyway, it's like all clear and stuff."

"Ah," Grell said with a sudden smile, seemingly excited to talk about something he was passionate about. "First on goes the lip-liner, slightly outside the natural line of the lip so as to make them look bigger, then on goes the lipstick! Then I fill in any gaps with the pencil again. Finally is the clear lip-gloss! It gives my lips an extra shine and locks in the lipstick so as to stop smudges and wear! Ah! Doesn't it look beautiful? Red, vibrant, luscious! Do I look sexy?"

Grell winked at Ronald and blew him a kiss.

Ronald frowned as his eyebrow twitched at the immature display. It was true that his senior _did _look rather attractive with red lips, long eyelashes, and long red hair that only added to his whole dishevelled look . . . he was also surprised that Grell was letting him see him with only half-finished make-up . . . the problem was that he wasn't attracted to his senior at all. Grell was a role model, a friend and colleague, even if he _didn't _mean it when he flirted . . . it was still weird.

The older man giggled slightly and then spun around again to continue painting his face, this time staining his eyes as red as his long hair, and as he did he hummed a rather cheerful tune to himself . . . forgetting that he was supposed to be angry and annoyed with William just as much as Ronald was. It was times like these where Ronald missed Alan and Eric. He never knew where he stood with Grell, and whilst the man was a great role model – always doing his job to the best of his ability – he was just so easily distracted and so unprofessional. He could never imagine Mister Spears batting his eyelashes or winking at strange men or - . . . okay, that was an image he would have to lose before William came back, at least if he wanted to address the man without laughing aloud.

A loud cough from the doorway brought Ronald and Grell to their senses . . .

William stood in the doorway looking rather furious. The expression itself wasn't as furious as it had been, but the anger was still there . . . he had raised one eyebrow slightly above the other, giving him a look of half-fury and half-pity. His posture was still perfect, but there was an ever so slight relaxed feeling to his shoulders, and his hands were tense and clenched into fists. He looked like a man on the edge. It made Ronald rather frightened, waiting for the moment for the man to snap.

Grell lifted his mirror to see who had entered, using it to look behind himself whilst leaning on his right hand as he manoeuvred the mirror in his left. He looked rather fed up, an expression not too far off from what their manager behind him wore, but – unlike William – he seemed far more indifferent and a lot more bored. The blood staining his waistcoat and the cut above his eye made him seem less intimidating and more surreal than anything. Ronald knew what was coming though. It would be the same reaction as always . . . first he would brighten up, then he would squeal like a schoolgirl, then he would run straight at William and –

"Oh," Grell said curtly, snapping his compact mirror closed harshly. "It's _you, _Mister Spears. Are you here for our reports on the 'violator'? I'm sure even slaves get a bathroom break and a moment to wipe the blood from their eyes."

Ronald sat up straight in surprise. This was new . . .

He had never seen Grell behave so seriously before, or answer Will back for that matter, and – in all honesty – it was incredibly disconcerting. He wasn't sure what to make of it and it frightened him. Mister Spears wasn't the kind of guy to take sarcasm or abuse lightly, but – then again – it wasn't as if Grell didn't have a point, and they _were _entitled to a break with all things considered . . . Grell had every right to nurse his injuries, and he had every right to be annoyed with William, but to maturely and responsibly offer forth a constructive point just didn't seem . . . _right_.

"I am not here about your report," William said with complete indifference.

"Hmm?"

Grell turned in his chair to face their superior. He folded his arms across his chest in a manner of mock control, something that reminded Ronald of what the upper classes had done onboard the ship, and when he crossed his legs he did so with such a perfection of femininity that it made Ronald feel slightly awkward. He couldn't tell if Grell was feeling defensive or annoyed with William and was unconsciously expressing his feelings, or – as was most likely – mocking the black-haired man's usual stuffy and passive-aggressive body-language. If he _were_ mocking William he would have to be careful, usually mockery ended with a punch to the face.

The redheaded man batted his eyelashes slightly and then turned his green eyes to Ronald, his expression one of dangerous amusement. His lips were slightly parted to reveal shark-like teeth and his head was tilted just slightly enough to cast a dark shadow over his face. Ronald couldn't help but flinch. It was never a good thing with his senior showed such sadistic amusement, and he suddenly felt rather afraid of what Grell was going to do. He cast his gaze away and let out a long sigh . . .

"Yo, Mister Spears?" Ronald said, hoping to lighten the mood. "It's been a long day, you know? I had to board the ship before it left, Mister Sutcliff had to wait for hours on that iceberg, and then we had to reap all those souls and stuff . . . I just wondered if the report could wait, if that's alright? I mean I don't mind working if it's necessary, but it'd be nice to get some rest."

"Oh, don't be silly, Ronald," Grell said, wafting his hand up and down as he practically glared holes into William. "It's _always _necessary. What can be more important than paperwork? It's just not a job well done until your eyes are blurry and your fingertips are bleeding. Are you _bleeding_, Ronald? Are you _broken_?" The way that Grell addressed him but stared at William was starting to scare him. "Do you want to _work_ yourself to the point of sheer _exhaustion_? If you do I'm sure our William can help. He can make any holiday into a chore!"

"I understand that you're angry, Grell Sutcliff," William began, "but you must –"

"Oh, no you don't!" Grell shouted. "You can't fool a lady with logic and reason!"

"I will not argue with that, Grell Sutcliff. There is _never_ any reasoning with you."

The fire and venom in Grell's eyes was overshadowed by the pain and betrayal. The look he wore was so much alike to the one he wore when climbing back into the lifeboat that Ronald felt pity for him, because he looked so broken. His eye were wide and forlorn, his eyebrows knitted in the middle as he looked almost expectant, and his shoulders slumped as if he could no longer carry the weight of the world. It was a mildly different look to what he wore when Sebastian rejected him. When Sebastian rejected him he _expected _that, and his 'heartbroken' demeanour only lasted for as long as he remembered that 'rejection', but with William it was always so different, the pain always seemed to last longer . . .

Grell turned his head back to the left in Ronald's direction, only – this time – he kept his eyes closed as if to avoid seeing anything or anyone that may offend his delicate beliefs or sensibilities. He was actually pouting, too. His lips were pursed into a very sharp pout, and his nose was upturned as if he had caught scent of a very nasty smell. It wouldn't have been so bad if Grell had been petulant for anyone else, but – in front of William – it was the worst decision in his career to date.

Ronald _knew _William. This could only go one way and it could only end badly, because their boss _wasn't _a patient man, and if Grell thought he could get away with acting childish then he'd been hit on the head one too many times. William was the sort of guy who would drag Grell back to their realm by the roots of his hair, who would slap the other man in the face for breaking rules, the kind of violent man that Grell was attracted to for all the wrong reasons and would hurt him for all the _right _ones. Yeah, he knew what William would do . . . the older man would twitch his eyebrow, then he would shout very loudly, then his death scythe would collide with Grell's –

"I am here to apologise, Grell."

"Aw, man!" Ronald ran a hand through his wet hair and groaned loudly, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance the way his manager's often did. "Can I have permission to go home now? I don't want to catch whatever's making you two act so weird. It's creeping me out!"

"Get back to work, Ronald Knox. You have a report to write."

"Huh? You just said you weren't here about our reports!"

"_Now_, Mister Knox."

Ronald groaned loudly and flung his head back. It was at times like that where Grell was reminded just how young his younger colleague was, almost like a teenager compelled to get the last word in an argument. The blond stood up and turned his chair around to sit in it properly, then slid himself under his desk to work at his report with loud sighs and occasional grumbles.

Grell smiled just slightly at the sight of his co-worker as he struggled around to find a pen to get started on his report; he was aware that at any second he would be made to work too, but until then he was content to simply enjoy the moment . . . save for _Will's _presence that was. He was furious with his manager. They had been dating for so many months now and the black-haired man was _still _as emotionally distant as when they had first met! Oh, Grell could deal with the physical distance – Sebastian, after all, still owed him that kiss, and it wasn't as if Madame Red was ever that affectionate to what the world perceived as her 'butler' – but the _emotional _distance was heart-breaking! It was as if a simple 'I love you' was impossible for him, so much so that even a 'I don't completely hate you' was a chore for him to admit . . .

Grell was intrigued by the supposed 'apology', but he wasn't about to let William off the hook just yet! He was a lady through and through, and he wouldn't just let some man like Will use him whenever he so pleased without any respect for his feelings whatsoever! He made sure to keep his arms folded and the disgust on his face, and – even as he stood up to face William directly – he never forgot the personal offence dealt to him. He wasn't about to let William off easily!

"I'm a lady _to die for_!" Grell spat, leaning forward and moving his hands onto his hips in a rather assertive manner. "I always thought my _flaming passion _would melt that _frosty exterior_ of yours, but you've been as cold as ever . . ."

Grell suddenly closed his eyes and sighed heavily, his head visibly sinking as his hair fell forward and swept across his vision. He stopped leaning forward and pulled himself upright. He cocked his head to one side and observed William curiously with his eyebrows knitted, biting his lower lip, and one hand resting on his hip as the other played with the ribbon on his neck lazily. He suddenly appeared tired and saddened. It was obvious that Ronald was watching them from the corner of his eyes, and it made Grell feel all the more self-conscious, but – at the same time – he had so many emotions that he needed to express . . .

"I used to think you were cruel as it was your job to be cruel," Grell said quietly. "I remember you reaping that poet on our first practical exam with such indifference. Oh! He had painted you in such beautiful words that the Bard himself would have wept for the talent that shone through like stars in the night's sky! He _immortalised _you in a way that humans crave more than life itself! You were always so cruel, even back then . . . I should have known."

"Known what?"

"That your cruelness wasn't an act after all! You seem to delight in it, Will! Oh, when you speak so coldly it's as if you douse me with ice and cut into me with your scythe, your words wound me! I feel all my love and happiness bleeding out of me and killing me slowly and bitterly! I feel like the leading lady in the final scene! I feel like Juliet dying for a love that is not to be! You – you never cared for me!"

William adjusted his glasses with his hand by the arm, the light reflecting off of them in such a way as to make his eyes invisible for a split second. Grell could see a slight reddening to his cheeks, a subtle twitch to his eyebrow, and an almost flinch in his shoulders, but his face remained as stoic and calm as it always had been. It made Grell despair a little. It was as if – even when confronted with _some _emotion – William couldn't even bring himself to react! Didn't the other man feel _anything_?

Grell pouted childishly and let out a loud huff of indignation, noting well that his superior wasn't exactly rushing to correct his assumptions, and so – lifting his head high so as to look down at William – he half-closed his eyes and stormed across the room to where Ronald sat working on his report. The redheaded man was only half-interested in his work.

Ronald's head was flat on the table and rested on his arm, whilst he scrawled in an admiringly legible way across the blank report form before him. He did frown when Grell stood in his light, but he was used to working in all kinds of conditions in their offices. Grell would often demand darkness in the mornings until he'd applied his make-up, when Alan was ill he would demand absolute silence to the point the noise of a page being flipped would make his head hurt, and Eric often sat on his reports whilst he was midway through writing to conduct conversations. It was a pain, but it made him capable of working in all situations at least.

"Fine, Will," Grell snapped, snatching Ronald's pen right out of his hand, "you can go now. See, I have a pen! I'll write the best report that you've ever seen, even if it takes me all night, because that's all I'm good for, isn't it? You just want me to –"

"Senpai?" Ronald said, trying not to get angry. "Can I have my pen back?"

"No! This isn't just a pen anymore!"

"It isn't?"

"No! This – this is a symbol of all bureaucracy! By wielding this pen I'm showing that I am conforming to William's cruel dictatorship! I'll be just as boring and bland as everyone else, I'll shed my red coat like the vibrant and devastatingly exotic snake sheds its skin, being reborn as – as – as some –"

"I've come to give you a day off, Grell," William interrupted.

Both Ronald and Grell stopped in their antics and turned to look at the black-haired man curiously . . . Ronald sat back with eyes wide as if his manager had just announced that he were dying, and Grell stared in horror as if his superior had somehow grew an extra head. They were hideously understaffed, everyone knew that, and after today they had the extra – and very important – job of reporting the Undertaker and figuring out what to do next. Now wasn't the time for days off, even Grell and Ronald could see that . . .

William was also a renowned workaholic. He didn't even _believe _in days off, and – in the past seven years – he had not even taken a single sick day or personal day. He would rather drag his subordinates coughing, puking, and bleeding into work and prop up their eventual corpse against a desk than have them take even a single hour off work. He just _didn't _give days off. It was . . . _weird_.

"Seriously," Ronald said timidly, "can I go home now? This is like the set-up for some horror movie . . . it's giving me the creeps."

"Get back to work, Ronald Knox."

"But Sutcliff-sempai stole my pen and –"

The cold and dangerous look that William gave Ronald was enough to cause him to shut up and do as he was told. It was pretty clear that William wasn't playing games, and the reports were rather important after all . . . he took his pen out of Grell's hand, who was still so much in shock that he didn't even notice, and then began to write once more. He tried to watch his two elders from the corner of his eyes, but it was difficult when William was in turn watching him, almost as if his boss didn't trust him to work without supervision.

Suddenly Grell seemed rather frightened. He actually spun around and came behind Ronald, using him as a makeshift shield, and raised his hands upwards in a gesture of surrender, he probably figured – much like Ronald – that something was suddenly very wrong. Either William was sick indeed, or he was luring Grell into some sort of trap, offering him a 'day off' when really it was a euphemism for 'suspended without pay', and – considering how many suspensions Grell had recently – a suspension would be the last thing he wanted. If he had pushed William to breaking point then that would be _really _bad, because William had a tendency to become violent when pushed too far. Ronald had been kicked on the job plenty of times, and Grell had his fair share of bruises too, and when William had _last _been forced to save Grell he had dragged him by the hair so much that the redhead gained an inch in hair length.

"It is as I said," William said, adjusting his glasses as he glared at his blond subordinate and tried to avoid eye contact with the redheaded one. "I am here to apologise. I am told that kicking my . . . _partner . . . _in the face isn't the correct behaviour in a romantic relationship, and so I wish to make it up to you."

"Huh? You're sorry about kicking me and Ronald earlier?"

"No," William replied coldly. "I still think you both deserved discipline for failing your job so miserably and forcing me to come and see to you, but I also acknowledge that as my romantic partner my response to you in specific may be considered somewhat disrespectful and abusive. I therefore –"

"Hey!"

Ronald paused mid-sentence to return his boss' glare, making sure that his distaste at the situation was clear for all to see. He tried not to look angry or aggressive, but he couldn't help but frown and pout a little at what William had just said, especially considering how unfair it was! He quickly checked his watch to see what time it was, hoping that he could clock off sometime soon, or – at the very least – escape this rather awkward conversation between the two men, but he knew that he would probably be made to stay in for a while.

"I resent that it's okay to kick me and not Mister Sutcliff," Ronald snapped. "Whatever happened to fairness in the workplace? You have to kick him as well or not kick either of us, you can't discriminate in who you kick, that's just uncool . . . anyway, can I go now? There's this party and –"

"Oh for goodness sake!" Grell kicked the back of his chair hard. "_Just go_!"

"Thanks, Sempai!"

Grell had never seen Ronald drop his work so quickly. The pen left his hand like it was physically burning him, and he didn't even stop to dry off or fix his appearance, he just ran out of the room as if his very life depended upon it. It was understandable. He _had _been working all day and gotten soaked to the skin in the process, and a report of that nature would take a long time to compile too, it was nothing short of unreasonable for William to have demanded that of them . . .

The redheaded man sighed loudly and collapsed into Ronald's chair, spinning around much like his younger colleague had done, before coming around to face William with a rather exhausted and confused expression. He crossed his legs at the knees and picked up a lock of hair, looking at the ends rather intently as he waited for William to pick up the conversation and explain himself. His chest still hurt with his wound and his eye stung just enough to make any extreme facial gestures a chore, he was lucky that Shinigami healed quickly and easily. He was certain had he and Ronald needed medical treatment that William would have been furious with their time off from work. He still didn't quite trust that William actually wanted to apologise.

William walked up to him and stood before him. The dark-haired man adjusted his glasses and then reached into his jacket with his spare hand, before withdrawing it to give Grell a piece of official looking paper. Grell blinked a few times and accepted the paper with a rather confused expression. William hadn't said anything as he presented the paper and he stood there without expressing any emotion or intent, and it was starting to make Grell feel rather uncomfortable.

"I decided to put it in writing," William explained.

"Huh? Put what in writing, Will?"

"That you may have a day off tomorrow."

Grell cast his eyes down at the paper sceptically, but it seemed to be pretty much exactly as William had said. He was to be given one day off without any expectation that he should make up that missed day with overtime, and he was even getting _paid _to take a day off too, something to do with owed holiday leave according to William's scribbled reasoning for why a day off should be given. Grell sighed and put the paper down on Ronald's desk, hoping some sort of explanation would make itself clear for him to understand why the sudden kind act.

"I realise that I may have been sending you conflicting messages," William continued, adjusting his glasses again for yet another time, leading Grell to believe it was a nervous habit. "I am dating you and yet I am seemingly abusing you. I asked the girls in General Affairs how I should rectify this, they told me that at times like this I should grovel and present you with a romantic gesture."

"Oh!" Grell clapped his hands together and leant forward with eyes sparkling in excitement. "So you've bought me roses and chocolates and arranged a romantic dinner in candlelight?"

"No," William replied with a slight blush. "I arranged for you to have a day off from work instead . . . roses die, chocolates will make you gain weight, and I would not even know who to ask about arranging a meal. You always complain you are overworked. I thought that this would be more romantic. A day off is much more useful to you, is it not?"

Grell smiled warmly, suddenly understanding.

It was so typical of William in retrospect, and – even if it wasn't conventionally romantic – the very fact that William had thought so long and hard about what would be most appreciated and needed by Grell was sweet indeed. Yes, Grell would have much preferred handwritten sonnets and love songs sung by moonlight, but he knew that William's personality meant that those things would forever be impossible, but the very fact that he was willing to try so hard . . . that he would embarrass himself just to say sorry to the man that he was growing to love . . . it meant more to Grell than all the roses in the world.

Grell stood up and pressed his hands against his heart as he leaned into William's personal space. The other man flinched just ever so slightly and turned his head sharply to the side, ignoring Grell's whines of excitement as he fluttered his eyelashes and looked deeply into his partner's eyes, eyes that were desperately trying to avoid looking back at him. He smiled warmly with his mouth closed, his cheeks were flushed, and he tried his best to look seductive to William.

"And you said something about 'grovelling', _Will . . . i . . . am_?"

"I thought I _was _grovelling."

The redhead pulled back to look at William with an amused smile. Yes, it was definitely just like his William! Only someone as stuffy as Will could think that 'grovelling' could mean 'asking politely', but then again it was much more than Will had ever offered anyone ever before, for someone like Will it was a huge concession! Grell folded one arm over his abdomen and rested his left elbow upon it, his finger coming up to rest along his jawbone as he gazed lovingly at William and waited for the raven-haired man to continue.

"I also have the day booked off," William admitted. "I am not adverse to spending my time off with you if you do not have any plans. I am sure we could find something to occupy our time, if that is what you wish."

"Oh, Will! You _do _love me!"

Grell flung his arms wide open and dove for William. He was surprised when the dark-haired man simply stood there and let Grell embrace him, and so it became a moment he would forever cherish. It seemed that William wasn't at the point in their relationship where he would return the embrace yet, but the very fact that he was letting Grell hold him was the most romantic gesture in the world!

"You know, Will," Grell said, lifting his leg like a movie heroine as he traced patterns onto William's chest with his finger. "I bought a new negligee just for you . . . _for . . . your _. . . _eyes _. . . _only_. Would you like to see it? We could finally consummate our relationship! Ah! How romantic it'll be! Two souls united as one as we celebrate our love and the red string of fate that connects us! _Oh_! I'm _tingling_ all over!"

"You bought a new negligee?"

"Uh-huh!"

Grell looked up at William and tried to hide his own sadistic smirk at seeing his partner's discomfort. The raven-haired man had pursed his lips into a tight line, his eyes cold and hard, and it seemed as if he was caught between wanting to throw the redhead off him and wanting to pull him closer. It was obvious that William would rather be locked in a room with a demon than ever admit to being intrigued by the idea of Grell in a negligee, but the he couldn't help the slight tinge to his cheeks or the way he blushed! Grell knew he was interested.

William sighed and stiffened his body as he began to let his feelings of awkwardness seep through for Grell to feel. Grell tried to distract him by playing with his tie, his long fingers tracing the materiel gently and softly, letting it run through his fingers as he eventually walked his fingers upwards and began to play with the knot at William's neck, loosening it to help the flustered man breathe.

"I am afraid all I bought was a new tie," William said almost indifferently.

Grell giggled at that and brought his hands down into his lap, clasping them together as he rested his head against William's shoulder and fluttered his eyelashes. He was leaning so close to his superior that he actually felt William squirm as his eyelashes brushed against the other's neck, tickling him slightly. After a few seconds of making Will exceedingly uncomfortable he kissed his cheek chastely. It was simply sweet that William had cared enough about Grell's opinion on his appearance to make any adjustment to his appearance at all.

"I'm sure we can find _some _use for this," Grell murmured, licking his lips as he walked away from William. "I believe they are called _ties _for a reason, and isn't love more enjoyable when you can't escape it?"

"No, it is not. There isn't a minute where I don't wish I could escape you."

"Ah, from you that's as good as a confession!"

Grell clapped his hands together and spun around in a full circle, when he stopped he jumped a little and leaned forward as if trying to get a better look at the man who had just inadvertently confessed to having feelings for him. He smiled and warmly and blew his partner a kiss. The look of horror on William's face was almost priceless! Grell simply giggled again, hiding his mouth behind a clenched hand, before darting across the office to the door.

"Until tomorrow then," he sang softly. "Goodnight, my William!"

"Goodnight . . . _Grell_."


End file.
